


The Heart Bleeds

by Aggie2011



Series: Vantage Point Universe [5]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, No Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-12 09:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aggie2011/pseuds/Aggie2011
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Natasha is reported killed in action, Clint walks away from SHIELD, from the Avengers, from everything. He has only one mission: Find the man who killed her. But nothing is as it seems and Clint's one-man quest for vengeance leads him to startling discoveries about revenge and how your past has a way of catching up to you. Sequel to "Trust", BlackHawk, whole team is there</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Tried My Best To Be Guarded

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> For those of you new to my stories, this is in my "Vantage Point Universe" which has four completed stories in it already. If you haven't read them, I would highly suggest it as it will give you the full scope of the series and make everything that happens in this story that much more impactful. However, it's not strictly necessary to read them to enjoy this.
> 
> This is the sequel to my previous story "Trust" - enjoy! :)

_No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear._

**_C. S. Lewis_ **

* * *

_July 12, 2013_

* * *

The silence of the cemetery was broken by the roar of the black Ducati as it sped through the front gate. The driver pulled to a stop less than a minute later, nudging down his kick stand, and turning off the bike. His passenger unwrapped her arms from around his waist and swung her leg off the bike, running a hand through her windblown shoulder length fiery red hair.

"Are you ready?" Natasha asked quietly, watching as Clint swung his body off the bike and pulled off his sunglasses. She pushed hers up into her hair and waited for him to respond.

"As I'll ever be, I guess," he sighed, holding out his hand.

She took it and together they walked away from the bike, weaving through headstones until they found the plot of six headstones that belonged to the Coulson family. Clint sat down next to Phil's name and leaned back against the granite. Natasha sat next to him, leaning into his side and pulling his arm over her shoulder.

With a deep sigh, Clint rested his free hand on the grass in front of the headstone.

"You okay?" Natasha asked softly.

"Yeah," he replied quietly. "Ten years today, since he kicked my ass across that alley in Vienna." He shook his head. "Never thought I'd be commemorating the day without him."

Natasha didn't say anything, just snuggled closer to his side.

"This time last year I couldn't even bring myself to visit his grave," Clint continued.

"It was too fresh. You weren't ready," Natasha replied softly. "He'd only been gone three months."

"And now it's been over a year," he sighed. "Three months shy of nine years working together and this is how it ended." He curled his fingers into the soft ground, feeling the dirt shift beneath his fingers.

"Everything ends eventually. It's the job of the one's left behind to make sure it's always remembered."

Clint's jaw clenched, before he blew out a breath, titling his head to rest on the top of hers.

"He always had this way of celebrating every year that passed without making a huge deal about it. Sometimes it was a fluff mission that was more vacation than anything. Sometimes it was a day off. Five years was the knife and Hawaii. At three years I was finally recovered from Croatia. He gave me back my bow and was there when I fired it for the first time in four months." He smiled suddenly. "A few days later I was sent to France and eventually sent after you."

"Just two and a half weeks later I shot you in my safe house." She smiled back.

"Yes," Clint laughed. "Phil was pissed about that."

"He told me when we got partnered, that no matter how tempting it was at times, I couldn't shoot you again."

"I bet there were  _several_  times over those nine years he wanted to pop a shot off at me. But the man had the patience of a saint."

"I've heard that patience is a vice."

Clint looked up in surprise, watching Tony and Pepper stroll up hand in hand.

"Tony," he greeted with a genuine smile. "What are you doing here?"

"A little birdie told me you might need some company." The billionaire shrugged and sat down on the opposite side of the tombstone. Pepper mirrored Natasha's position and Clint glanced at his partner.

"Coulson would have wanted you to spend today with your  _new_  team as well as your old," she whispered quietly.

Clint smiled warmly at her, the kind of smile that he reserved only for her. His attention was pulled to his friend when Tony spoke.

"So ten years, huh? What's it like to have the same boss for that long? Was Fury always such a pain in the ass?"

"He's mellowed with age."

The two men shared a smirk. It had been almost six months since their foray into South Africa and run in with Ricardo LeRoux. Since then, Clint and Tony had become firm and loyal friends, closer than Clint was with anyone but Natasha.

Tony looked at Clint's hand, curled in the dirt of Coulson's grave. In a silent show of support, he casually reached over and patted Clint's arm. The archer granted him an acknowledging smile and the four fell into silence.

Tony never could handle silence for too long.

"It's almost unreasonably quiet here, isn't it?" the genius mused aloud.

"It's a cemetery, Tony," Pepper reminded with a frown.

"So? Does that mean there isn't any life here?"

"I think it does by definition." Clint smirked.

"It's  _supposed_  to peaceful," Pepper scolded.

"It's depressing," Tony huffed.

"It's a  _cemetery_."

Clint shared a grin with Natasha at the bickering between their companions. Their attention was drawn suddenly to their left when a deceptively young voice called out in greeting.

"Sorry we're late." Steve smiled as he strode towards them, Bruce at his side. "We were waiting for a late arrival." He motioned behind him and stepped aside, revealing Thor, who was smiling broadly.

"Greetings my friends!" the Asgardian boomed merrily as he strode forward.

"Goldilocks!" Tony smiled widely, "You're back!"

"Indeed I am." Thor leaned forward to grasp Clint's forearm where he had his hand outstretched. "It has been far too long, most noble archer," he greeted warmly.

"Glad you're back, big guy," Clint smiled.

"Widow in Black." Thor nodded at Natasha, who smiled. "Lady Potts." He nodded to Pepper. She smiled widely at the chivalrous title. Thor moved to stand next to Steve.

"He says he's back for a while this time," Bruce volunteered as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants.

"Yes, I do regret that my duties on Asgard have kept me away from this most noble realm for so long," Thor agreed. "However, it is my intent to remain here for a considerable length of time, both to reunite with Jane and to fulfill my purpose as one of your Avengers."

"Is Jane still at the new site in Montana?" Pepper asked curiously.

"Indeed. I intend to travel to her in a three week's time. She has told me she will have reached the conclusion of her current project in that time and I will no longer be what she calls an 'entirely wanted, but must be avoided distraction'."

"Well we're glad to have you back." Steve clapped him on the shoulder as the three newly arrived men dropped to sit around Coulson's grave. They were all silent for a few minutes, staring thoughtfully at the headstone of their lost friend.

"It's hard to believe it's been over a year," Bruce mused quietly.

"A lot has changed," Steve agreed.

"For the better, I think." Tony shrugged carelessly, but there was a serious perceptiveness in his eyes as he held Pepper closer and reached to lightly punch Clint's shoulder. Clint looked around at his team and couldn't disagree. The only thing that would have made it perfect would be if Phil was there with them.

Silence reigned again for several moments, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Steve cleared his throat.

"So Clint, we have a surprise for you."

"Should I be concerned?" Clint smirked.

"No," Steve smiled.

"At least not yet," Tony added.

Steve ignored him and continued.

"To honor your tenth anniversary of joining SHIELD, we've organized a small celebration."

"You guys didn't have to do that." Clint shook his head. He was being ignored, though, as Steve, Thor, and Tony all grew immensely animated as they explained their plan. Even Bruce looked excited as he added in his own pieces. He glanced at Natasha when she nudged him.

"They've been planning this for weeks. Just let them have their fun," she whispered for only his ears. Clint sighed and nodded. He would never admit how much it warmed him to know that his friends, his team, his  _family_  cared so much. Though he should have expected it after what they did for his birthday back in April.

"So, you just sit back and let us do everything," Tony instructed firmly.

"I think I can handle that," Clint smiled.

"Good! Well, then it's time to disperse to our various duties. Except for you, of course." He grinned at Clint and climbed to his feet. "See you back at the Tower." He gripped Clint's offered hand and led Pepper back the way they'd come.

"I, as well, have most important matters to tend to, so I will bid you farewell for a short time." Thor rose as well.

"I'm his ride, so I guess that means I'm off too." Bruce stood. "Ready, Steve?"

"Yes, if I'm going to do this, I'll need plenty of time to get everything ready."

Clint watched bemusedly as the last of them disappeared out of view.

"It'll be fun." Natasha twisted so she could look him in the eye. "I'll make sure the dinner is edible," she promised.

"Since when do  _you_  cook?" Clint teased. She slapped his arm, harder than was strictly necessary, and rolled her eyes.

"Well, I do have a very talented teacher," she smiled.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." She nodded, leaning forward to kiss him lightly. "He's sexy too."

"Should I be jealous?"

"Very jealous."

She gave him one last quick kiss and stood.

"I'll wait for you by the bike."

He nodded and shifted so he could see Phil's name on the headstone.

"Looks like you had it right, Phil. That crazy bunch of misfits seems to be a good fit for me. It's almost like having a family again."

He sighed and ran his fingers across Phil's name.

"A  _crazy_  and  _dysfunctional_  family." He tilted his head and smiled. "But a family all the same. Just wish you were here to be part of it." He paused and stared at his friend's name. "Sorry I haven't been out since the anniversary, but it's still kinda hard." He sighed again and pushed to his feet. "I miss having you on the other side of my comm., Overwatch."

With that he patted the top of the tomb stone and walked away. He'd always thought it was strange when people talked to tombstones like the person could actually hear him. He still thought it was strange. He didn't do it because he thought Coulson could hear him somewhere in the universe. He talked to Phil because he'd talked to Phil for nine years and it wasn't just something he could stop doing. And for a just a minute, he could imagine that the man wasn't gone. Then he'd return to reality and sometimes it would be a little easier to accept that he was.

* * *

Clint watched with intense amusement as Steve and Natasha cooked dinner. They were making lasagna, something he'd taught Natasha how to make during his recovery from the LeRoux debacle. Currently, Steve was fending Tony off from the meat sauce and Natasha was stirring the cheese mixture while listening to Pepper talk animatedly.

Bruce's job was to cue up the movie for the night, Clint's choice, for once, instead of Tony's.

He'd gone with  _Batman Begins_. Something about a hero with no superpowers just seemed appealing.

Thor was watching Bruce with rapt attention, determined to learn how Tony's home theater system worked.

Clint was just sitting, relaxing at the island counter, lounging on a barstool, and nursing a beer. He didn't drink often and when he did it wasn't much. Having your parents killed by a drunk driver tends to turn you off of alcohol. But on days like today, when he'd visited Phil and just wanted to relax, he would nurse one. He probably wouldn't even finish it.

"Alright, Legolas," Tony was suddenly at his side, "Time for your present, come with me."

"Present?" Clint arched an eyebrow.

"Yep, now come on."

Clint tossed a look at Natasha who jerked her head after Tony, clearly telling him to get his ass moving. So he did.

* * *

"It's still a prototype, but I think I'll have it ready to go for you in a month or so," Tony explained as they stood staring at what looked like a replica of the top half of what Clint thought of as his 'Avengers' uniform. Complete with the deep purple and black coloring and SHIELD logo on its chest.

"So you've taken up sewing?" Clint teased, moving closer to the uniform and reaching to touch the fabric.

"I thought I'd moonlight as your personal tailor from now on," Tony deadpanned. "No, smartass, feel the chest and abdomen area."

"It's different, not like what my old one's made out of."

"It's bullet proof."

Clint's eyebrows rose.

"It doesn't feel like Kevlar."

"It's not, I invented it."

"Does it work?" Clint asked, circling the stand the uniform was presented on.

"Almost."

Clint rounded the stand and arched an eyebrow with a grin.

"Almost? So if I get shot with this thing on, it'll  _almost_  stop the bullet?"

Tony glared dryly.

"That's why I said it was a prototype, Feather Head. I'm still in the testing process. I'll get it right and then I can cash in on the running bet about how many times you'll get shot in your lifetime."

Clint laughed, moving to stand with Tony and look at the creation again. They stood in silence for a moment.

"You know Tasha's got the corner on that bet. She knows about the bullet wounds that aren't in my file," Clint advised.

"You got shot  _before_  you had a file at SHIELD? You were just a kid when you were recruited."

Clint smirked and clapped a hand against Tony's chest.

"That's so disturbing." Tony shook his head.

"Might want to change your bet, Tin Can," Clint laughed, walking out. He didn't tell Tony that the only time he'd been shot before SHIELD was the night he'd met Phil. It was technically in his file, but only in the medical portion. And it was redacted.

He smirked as he heard Tony muttering about doing more research. Too easy.

* * *

Clint settled at the bar, as per Natasha's instruction, as she cleaned up the kitchen. He'd tried to help, but she'd threatened him with a wooden spoon. Tony had laughed at him until Clint started listing all the ways Natasha knew how to maim and/or kill someone with a wooden spoon. Tony had bid them goodnight fairly quickly after that, pulling Pepper off to their room.

Bruce had gone to bed nearly as soon as the movie ended, citing research he had to do early the next morning. Thor had left to video chat with Jane. Jarvis was setting it up for him on the computer in Thor's room. Thor didn't even have to touch the laptop. Steve had disappeared off somewhere with a promise to return shortly.

"Thank you for eating the lasagna," Natasha offered as she loaded the dishwasher. "I  _told_  Steve to go easy on the seasoning in the sauce."

"It was fine," Clint assured. "So how long have you known about this little plan of theirs?"

"They started planning it about three weeks ago." She shrugged. "Pepper had told me by the end of the first day."

"And you didn't tell me?" He wasn't upset, just surprised. It wasn't often they kept things from each other.

"I wanted it to be a surprise." She pushed the dishwasher closed and turned to look at him. "I took it as a personal challenge as it's nearly impossible to get anything past you."

"I would consider your mission accomplished. I had no idea." He smiled, sliding off his stool and moving to trap her against the dishwasher with his arms, hands on the counter on either side of her. "It's inspired me to a mission of my own."

"Oh yeah?" she smiled, sliding her hands up his back.

"It involves you," he explained seriously, "and me."

"I'm liking it already."

"And whoever's room is closer."

Natasha hummed in agreement, but put a hand on his chest to stop his progression towards her.

"I can promise you that you'll accomplish your mission, мой сокол, but there's someone that wants to talk to you first."  _(my hawk)_

"Looks to me like there's no one else here," Clint countered, leaning forward again. She pushed him back.

"Steve is waiting awkwardly in the hallway. He wants to talk to you."

As if on cue, the super soldier peeked his head into the room.

"It'll just take a minute," he promised, his face an interesting shade of red as he took in their close proximity in combination with the conversation he'd overheard.

"I'll finish up here and meet you in my room," Natasha whispered, nudging him towards Steve.

Clint nodded and moved towards the Captain, who had retreated back into the hallway.

"What's up, Cap?"

"Not here," Steve insisted, leading the way down the hallway. Clint followed without complaint. Of all of the men that lived in this tower, Steve was the one that never did anything without a reason. He led Clint to the stairwell and then up to the roof.

"You're not gonna push me off the roof are you?" Clint joked.

"No," Steve smiled, moving to the edge and looking out over the city. "I see why you like it up here."

"What's going on, Cap?"

Steve sighed, looking suddenly nervous.

"I have something for you. Call it a gift for your ten year anniversary."

"Steve, you didn't have to."

"I didn't," Steve corrected immediately, "Well at least not really."

"I'm not following." Clint's brow furrowed.

"I'm not explaining this very well." Steve reached into his back pocket. "Here."

He held out a small stack of cards.

Clint's breath left him in a rush as he stared at the stack of authentic Captain America trading cards. He'd recognize that stack anywhere. He slowly reached out to take them from Steve.

"Fury gave these to me after Agent Coulson," he paused, "well just after. I didn't have the nerve to look at them until three months ago on the anniversary. He'd asked me a dozen times to sign them and I kept putting it off."

"He was obsessed." Clint huffed a laugh, feeling his chest tighten at the long since dried blood on the cards.

"Anyway, I was looking at them and I found this taped to the back of one." Steve produced a small note from his pocket and read it. " _Phil, here's to five years. This is for everything I can and can't thank you for. Now you're one step closer to a full set. –Clint"_

Clint felt moisture pool in his eyes and quickly blinked it away. He and Phil had been on a "mission" in Hawaii for Clint's 5 year mark. Natasha had come too, but had made herself fairly scarce, not entirely comfortable with them yet. Coulson had given him a kick ass knife and he'd given Phil a Captain America trading card. He could remember that trip like it was yesterday. It was a good memory.

"Anyway," Steve continued quietly, "I think he'd want you to have them."

"Why now?" Clint asked.

"Because giving them to you on the first anniversary of his death just didn't seem like something you were ready to handle."

Clint nodded. He'd spent that day sequestered on the roof with Natasha until he'd gotten the nerve to go to the cemetery. He'd spent hours just sitting at Phil's grave. Just remembering. If Steve had given him these that day, he'd have come apart.

"Thank you," Clint stated sincerely. "This means a lot. More than you know."

Steve squeezed his shoulder gently.

"I know better than anyone, Clint."

Clint smiled slightly, because it was true. Steve knew loss better than anyone else, maybe better than him. He got it. He had since the beginning. Steve left him alone then and went back inside. Clint spent a few minutes looking at the cards before he headed inside too.

* * *

As promised, Natasha was waiting in her room, cleaning one of her guns. She set it aside when he slipped into the room.

"What did he want?" she asked, frowning slightly at the expression on his face. He wordlessly held out the cards and sat down on the bed. Natasha went through them, understanding their significance. "Wow," was all she could say.

"Yeah," Clint sighed, kicking off his shoes and laying down. He rolled over and rested his head on her lap, wrapping an arm around her legs. "I miss him, Tasha."

She sighed and rested a hand in his hair.

"I know."

She allowed him a moment of wallowing before she tickled the back of his neck lightly.

"Don't you have a mission to complete?" she teased, smiling when he immediately raised his head and grinned mischievously.

"I believe I do."

"Are there any parameters?" she asked as he raised himself up and shifted closer.

"Nope."

"Sounds like your kind of mission."

"Definitely."

* * *

_Two weeks and 3 days later- July 28, 2013_

* * *

Clint tilted his head to the side, staring at the bullet ridden uniform across the lab.

"I think it needs a few more tweaks," he advised needlessly.

"No kidding, Feather head." Tony rolled his eyes and slid in his rolling chair from the table he'd been at with Clint to his computer station. "I'm getting closer though."

Clint, sitting backwards in his own rolling chair, rested his chin on the chair back and reached for one of Tony's testing guns. He absently disassembled it and reassembled it as Tony shifted to work in his holographic computer world.

They both perked up when the background music shifted tracks. They'd know that beginning beat anywhere.

" _This ain't a song for the broken hearted."_

"Jarvis turn it up," Tony demanded as he continued working.

" _No silent prayer for the faith departed."_

Clint found himself moving his head to the beat as he disassembled another one of the guns.

" _I ain't gonna be just a face in the crowd. You're gonna hear my voice when I shout it out loud…"_

Without looking at each other they both played air drums for the two hard beats before the chorus.

" _It's my life! It's now or never! I ain't gonna live forever! I just wanna live while I'm alive…It's my life!..My heart is like an open highway! Like Frankie said, I did it my way! I just wanna live while I'm alive…It's my life!"_

The song turned down suddenly, making both of them look up.

" _Agent Barton, Agent Romanoff is looking for you,"_  Jarvis announced suddenly.

Clint was already rising and putting the gun down.

"Where is she, Jarvis?"

" _In your bedroom."_

Clint nodded and headed towards the door.

"It's Hawkeye-Iron Man," Clint tossed over his shoulder as he moved out of the lab.

"Iron Man-Hawkeye!" Tony shouted after him before returning to his work.

* * *

"You were looking for me?" Clint asked as he came into his bedroom.

"I can't find my Makarovs," she complained as she pulled open his closet and scanned the weapon rack on the back wall, looking for her missing weapons.

"Did you check your room?" he asked as he moved to the footlocker at the end of his bed.

"I just came from there," she replied as she closed the closet and moved to his side as he pulled up the lid of the footlocker.

"Ah." Clint pulled out two twin Makarov pistols and held them out to her. "Your Makarovs."

"Thank you," she smiled, taking the guns and looking them over.

"Something wrong with your Berettas?" he asked curiously.

"No, just doing a run through of all my weapons to make sure everything is working."

Clint nodded. They both did a full run through of their weapons ever few months to make sure everything was in working order.

"Might as well join you," he shrugged, reaching for the black duffle in the footlocker. He kept his emergency weapons in it, the ones he would prefer if he had to leave in a hurry and didn't have time to gather any. She followed him over to his weapon rack in the closet and helped him pull them off their spots on the walls and push them into the bag. He pulled his quiver onto his back last and stowed his bow in its spot at the small of his back.

"Are my Desert Eagles in your room?" he asked, realizing they weren't in the bag.

"They're in my closet," she replied with a nod.

Clint nodded and followed her out of the room and into the hallway.

"Where were you?" she asked curiously as they moved through the halls and made their way to her room.

"In the lab."

Natasha smiled. Of all the other men in the tower, Tony was the one Clint was the most himself around. Even if he confided in Steve about more serious matters or rolled his eyes in mock annoyance at Bruce's near constant worry over his health or allowed Thor to give him bone bruising bear hug when no one else but Natasha was ever allowed that close. With Tony he was relaxed; he joked and kidded. He smiled like he used to smile when he joked and kidded with Phil. For that, Natasha would always be grateful to Tony.

They collected her weapons from her room as well as Clint's wayward Desert Eagles and made their way to the range.

* * *

It was Pepper that came looking for them three hours later. She came into the range and immediately covered her ears at the rapid gunshots that greeted her. The range was made to be soundproof on purpose, so someone could practice without the whole tower hearing it. Of course that meant you ran the risk of being caught by surprise if someone was firing when you came into the range.

Pepper quickly reached for a set of sound suppressing ear muffs and pulled them on. Natasha noticed her first and nudged Clint, who was firing in the lane next to her. They both cleared their guns and set them down.

"What's up Pepper?" Natasha asked as she pulled her black earplugs out of her ears.

"The natives are-" Pepper stopped when Natasha winced and motioned at her own ears. Pepper opened her mouth in an 'O' and pulled of the sound suppressing ear muffs. "Was I shouting?" she asked.

"Only a little." Clint grinned as he swung his ear buds around by their wire.

"Well anyway," Pepper continued in a more normal tone, "the natives are getting restless. Tony's threatening to start cooking on his own so…"

"I'm on it," Clint laughed.

"I'll get your gear," Natasha volunteered. Clint nodded in thanks and jogged out of the range.

"What were you two doing?" Pepper asked as she watched Natasha grab a black duffle and walk around the range collecting weapons from where they were spread out around the entire area.

"Every couple of months we do a full cleaning and testing of our weapons to make sure everything's still working right."

"Sounds like quality time." Pepper couldn't help but smile. Leave it to the two assassins to spend their free time together cleaning and firing weapons. It fit them so perfectly.

Natasha smiled, not disagreeing.

"We better get up there before the battle over what Clint's going to cook erupts," she advised, shouldering both her and Clint's weapon bags.

"I don't know why they bother," Pepper chuckled as she held the range door open for her. "We all know who really decides what the man ends up cooking."

Natasha smirked, and again didn't disagree.

"What would  _you_  like tonight, Pepper?"

* * *

Just over an hour later the entire team settled in various places in the large home theater each with a plate of spaghetti. Tony pulled up his holographic control panel for his digital movie library and scrolled through his unreasonably large collection.

He finally settled on, after several discarded suggestions, the movie  _Shooter_. Clint immediately perked up at the mention of a movie about a sniper and Natasha agreed fairly quickly after that, with Steve only moments behind. Pepper didn't care as long as they just  _picked_  one. Thor was happy with anything that contained action and Bruce, Bruce didn't get his blood pressure up by arguing. Instead he chose just to comment calmly that as long as no one was shooting  _at_  him, he'd be happy.

As the final credits rolled, Thor sat forward with an awed expression.

"Noble Archer, is it true that you are able to fire that long range weapon with even greater skill than that man?"

"It's been said," Clint allowed with an arrogant smirk.

"There should be a movie about  _you_ ," Pepper smiled, uncurling from her position on the couch next to Tony and yawning.

"That would be something," He laughed. "Who wants coffee?" Clint asked as he unwrapped his arm from around Natasha and pushed to his feet. He got a chorus of affirmative responses as he headed out of the theater and down the hall to the kitchen.

He was just starting Tony's fancy and expensive coffee machine when Natasha slid into the kitchen and moved to the fridge, retrieving the cream while Clint got the sugar.

"So," she smiled as she moved to stand with him, "two more days."

"Until what?" Clint teased, accepting the elbow to his stomach with a grin. "Kidding," he defended. "I know what's in two days," he promised.

"What's in two days?" Tony asked as he came into the kitchen with the rest of the group trailing behind.

"You couldn't wait ten minutes for it to be done and us to bring it to you?" Clint complained good naturedly, rolling his eyes heavenward.

"Don't change the subject, Big Bird," Tony scolded. "What's in two days?"

"None of your damn business," Clint shot back, the slight laughter in his tone taking all the heat out of the words. Natasha rolled her eyes and nudged him.

"Go ahead and tell them. You know he won't let it go."

"In two days, on the 31st, we celebrate seven years," Clint revealed with a sigh, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the counter.

"Seven years of what?" Steve asked curiously.

"Partnership?" Bruce wondered.

"No." Clint shook his head.

"Seven years since you two, you know?" Tony wiggled his eyebrow suggestively.

Steve blushed, Pepper hit him, and both Clint and Natasha rolled their eyes.

"No," they stated together.

"Seven years since the day we met in France," Natasha ended the guessing game.

"That's sweet." Pepper smiled.

"Not really," Clint huffed, "She shot me while I was  _trying_  to save her life."

"That's so," Bruce paused, trying to find the right word, "romantic?" he hedged but then frowned because that didn't seem right.

"I didn't know he was trying to save me at the time," Natasha defended.

The rest of the team stared at them.

"What, you're surprised?" Clint scoffed. "You think we had a magical 'eyes meet across the room and the whole world changes' moment? You _do_  realize we're assassins? And we met because I was sent to  _kill_  her."

"But you said you were trying to save her life." Steve frowned.

"I was," Clint confirmed, smirking at the confusion on everyone's faces.

"It's a long story," Natasha stated in a tone that indicated it wasn't a story they were going to hear, effectively ending the discussion. She turned to start pulling coffee mugs out of a cabinet.

"I knew it!" Tony smiled. "Your file said that there was an 'incident' during Romanoff's recruitment. I was betting it was a gunshot wound, as that seems to be your tendency." He crossed his arms happily across his chest. "I'm totally going to win this bet."

Clint rolled his eyes and seriously contemplated asking Natasha to shoot him  _again_  just so Tony would lose.


	2. I'm An Open Book Instead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Thanks to wecantgiggleitsacrimescene for commenting :)
> 
> I wish I could tell you all whether you'll be happy or sad in the end of this, but that would ruin the story for you! :D 
> 
> On to chapter 2!

_The only cure for grief is action._

**_G. H. Lewes_ **

* * *

"Get your hands up," Clint instructed sharply.

Tony raised his hands higher only to have a gloved fist slam into his ribs. He dropped his hands with a glare.

"What the hell? You just said to get my hands  _up_."

"That doesn't mean you stop protecting your ribs."

Tony scowled.

"You're  _kidding_ , right?" He pointed a gloved hand at the archer in accusation. "You  _told_  me to raise my hands  _just_  so you could hit me in the ribs. Admit it."

Clint smirked and adjusted one of his gloves.

"Did you offer to train me in hand to hand just so you could beat up on me?"

"No," Clint assured. "But it is a perk." He lightly punched Tony in the shoulder. "Now come on, you'll never be Jet Li, but I can teach you some of the finer points of close combat."

"So you can abuse your power? No thanks." Tony scowled.

"Oh come on, Tony, I'm sorry. I promise not to do it again." He paused and then shrugged carelessly. "At least not on purpose."

"On purpose. Right." Tony rolled his eyes and raised his hands.

Clint smirked again and raised his.

"Ready?"

"If I have to be."

* * *

Natasha moved away from her punching bag and watched Tony's training session with Clint. They'd been going hard for over an hour now. She hadn't been surprised when Clint offered to start training Tony in hand to hand. After South Africa and how much their friendship had grown since, Clint wanted Tony as protected as possible. To Clint, that meant training him to protect himself when Clint wasn't there to do it for him.

They'd seemed to joke around at first. Well, Clint joked. Tony scowled because he was still getting used to being on the other side of teasing. But they'd gotten serious after that and Natasha had mostly ignored them. Ignored them as much as she was ever able to ignore Clint.

Clint hadn't gone easy on him, that was obvious by the sweat that soaked both Clint's sleeveless black t-shirt and Tony's self-indulgent Iron Man shirt. But they seemed to be drawing to a close. She moved towards the ring, watching Tony put what Clint had taught him this session into practice. Steve was suddenly next to her, sweating from his run around Tony's second level indoor track. Thor was practicing with his hammer, fighting an invisible enemy and his focus remained on his training, not even sparing them a glance.

Bruce never came and trained with them. One nearly disastrous occurrence while Clint and Steve were sparring convinced Bruce never to step foot in the training room again. Steve rarely landed hits on Clint; he sparred with him for the endurance and reflex training it gave both of them. He'd never had to react faster than when Clint ducked under a punch and brought his boot solidly towards Steve's stomach.

Steve had gotten a lucky hit and had barely grazed Clint's rib cage. It had been enough to send him across the ring and crashing to the ground though.

The other guy hadn't liked that and had come surging forward without Bruce's approval, leaping into the ring to protect 'arrow man'. At least that had been the only discernible term in his raging yells. Clint had talked him down, jumping back up from the floor with impressive ease and sliding between the howling green giant and the profusely apologizing Steve. He'd assured the Hulk that he was fine and that Steve hadn't done it on purpose. He'd been sporting some wickedly bruised ribs for the next few weeks though. Not that anyone but Natasha had known about them.

Natasha nodded in approval as Tony executed his new moves and steadily forced Clint backwards. He only ended up landing one hit, solidly to Clint's ribcage, but the pride on his face would have suggested he'd just put him on the mat. Clint looked proud too, even as he held his hand to his aching ribs.

They bumped gloves and Tony climbed out of the sparring ring, making a bee-line for his water bottle. Clint leaned his forearms on the ropes and accepted the blue Gatorade Natasha tossed up.

"Wanna go a few rounds, Tash?" he asked before taking a swallow from the drink.

"Think you can handle it?" she taunted, already climbing into the ring.

"I'm just getting warmed up," Clint shot back, tossing his drink to Steve, who caught it and watched them with rapt attention. Tony, too, was watching them curiously. It wasn't a rare occurrence for the two assassins to spar. It was  _always_  a sight to behold though. They knew each other's moves so well that it was like they were doing a perfectly orchestrated dance. A perfectly orchestrated dance that involved a lot of flipping, twisting in the air, punching, and kicking.

Clint pulled of his sparring gloves and tossed them out of the ring. He and Natasha never used protective gear because they wouldn't have it in the field. He sized his partner up, gauging how tired she was from her round with the punching bag. She was glistening with sweat, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail with loose strands sticking to the side of her face. She didn't seem fatigued at all. Clint smiled. This was going to be fun, just like it always was.

Natasha watched Clint smile like he was going to enjoy this and she smiled back. She did enjoy sparring with him and not only because he was the only person that could ever keep up with her. She eyed him speculatively. His sleeveless black t-shirt was sticking to his body from sweat, doing a fantastic job of outlining his toned torso. Her smile turned to an appreciative smirk. Clint's eyes narrowed at her, as if he knew what she was thinking and then he shook his head in mock exasperation.

Then they both put their game faces on. It was disconcerting for the two men watching. One second they're all smiles and playful glares and then they're on lock down with no emotion visible. Thor came to stand next to Steve suddenly.

"This, my friends, will be something to behold. Two more skilled combatants I have never seen."

Steve could only nod as Natasha made the first move.

She kicked out with a high spin kick and he leaned back easily to avoid it. She followed with an attempt to hook her elbow behind his neck, but he twisted under and away from her and danced a few steps back. She ran at him, planting her inside foot on his opposite thigh and then bringing her outside foot around towards his head. He ducked under it, grabbed the leg of the foot pressing against his thigh and twisted her to the ground. She rolled as she hit, scissoring her legs around his to send him to the ground as well.

That was when the sparring match really got started.

The others looked on with slightly gaping jaws as the two went at each other fiercely.

The two assassins were blurs of motion. Natasha leapt at him, wrapping her legs around his neck and throwing herself into a back handspring. Clint tucked in his head, gripped her thighs, and rolled with it. He held on to her legs as he rolled, keeping her from disengaging and ended up on his back with her heels digging painfully into his shoulders and her thighs still around his neck. He brought his right leg up behind her and wrapped it around her torso, forcing her back while using his hands to twist her right leg off of his neck and freeing himself.

Natasha rolled with the force of the move and did a backwards somersault, ending in a low, spread crouch. She watched him windmill his legs into the air and propel himself to his feet, landing with his legs set wide. She ran at him, sliding like a baseball player through the gap between his feet and rising to her knees, only to spin and try to sweep his legs from behind. He jumped, flipping backwards over her head without using his hands. She spun as he landed. Planting her hands on the ground and twisting her body into the air. Her legs scissored around his waist, but before she could complete the move, he leaned forward, wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her bodily off the ground.

She shifted, locking her ankles at his back and sending her fist at his cheek. He removed one hand from her waist to catch her fist and twist it behind her back. She tried again with the other with the same result.

They stared at each other, both breathing hard. Then she smirked.

"Tasha," Clint nearly growled just before she threw her weight backwards, unlocking her ankles and pulling her legs through his arms. Her arms twisted as she flipped and he was forced to release her or dislocate both her shoulders. She landed lightly and kicked at his ribs. He caught her leg against his side and twisted into the air, scissoring his legs around her chest and arms and sending them both careening to the mat. She kneed him in the back and in three moves had his arm in an arm bar and was angling at his head with her legs. He was ready.

If she could bank on him not trying to hurt her, then so could he.

He rolled towards her, feeling the pull in his shoulder, and slid his free arm under the leg she had bent over his neck. He locked it between his elbow and his chest and rolled his body up and forward. His shoulder pulled and then was released.

She rolled away and to her feet and he did the same.

They stared at each other and then she smiled.

She was offering him a stalemate. He would take it.

He smiled back and they straightened.

"That was risky," she scolded as he massaged his sore shoulder.

"So was that back flip," he countered.

She shrugged dismissively and they dropped it. They turned to see three sets of awe struck eyes watching them.

"What?" Clint demanded.

"Such feats of combat I rarely see," Thor praised.

"That was incredible, as always." Steve shook his head in amazement.

"You're gonna teach me to do all that, right?" Tony asked enthusiastically.

Clint and Natasha both laughed in a derisive, sarcastic manner that had him frowning in offense.

* * *

"I thought I had boxers in here," Clint grumbled as he rooted around in Natasha's dresser.

"Try the other drawer," She suggested, never lifting her focus from the nail she was precisely filing. Clint shifted his rooting to the next drawer and came up empty.

"I swear I left some in here," He sighed, moving over to the bed, holding the towel around his waist in place with one hand and using the other to rub some residual water out of his hair.

"You've stayed in here four nights this week, maybe you used them all," She suggested, tossing her nail file onto the nightstand. "Who says you need boxers anyway." She smiled coyly as she watched him pull back the blankets on his side of her bed.

"Whether I need them tonight is irrelevant." He smirked, tossing the towel away and climbing into bed. "It's the morning when we have to venture out into the world that I'm more concerned about."

"So take the vents back to your room in the morning." She shrugged, watching him check the time on his phone.

"I am  _not_  crawling around in the air ducts naked," he refused, eyeing her attire with a suddenly speculative eye. "Are those  _my_  boxers?" he demanded with a shocked laugh.

"Possession is nine tenths," she defended.

"I'm going to need those back," he informed her seriously, eyeing her in a particularly predatory way. She smiled seductively, pushed him onto his back and moved to straddle him.

"Come and get them," she challenged.

* * *

"One more day," Clint mused as he gently ran his hand through her hair. She hummed in agreement from where her head was pillowed on his chest. "After tomorrow, it'll have officially been seven years since you shot me."

"Are you ever going to let that go?" she laughed, tracing her fingers over his many scars.

"You  _shot_  me."

"I apologized," she defended.

" _No_  you didn't," he laughed.

"It was implied, when I didn't kill you later that night."

"Was it?"

"Yes."

"Don't know how I missed that." He chuckled, trailing his fingers down her spine.

She smiled and stretched, sighing in contentment.

"So what are you going to cook me to commemorate the special occasion?" she asked.

He hummed in thought.

"Depends on what country you're craving. United States,  _Italia, France, Deutschland,_ _Magyarország, España,_ _Россия…"_   _(United States, Italy, France, Germany, Hungary, Spain, Russia…)_ His accent changed with every place he listed, matching the language of the country. He trailed off with a wave of his hand, indicating, he could go on.

She considered for a moment.

"I think it's only appropriate that we eat the food of the country we met in."

" _France_ it is then." He nodded, humming thoughtfully again. "First, of course, is the wine. I know a guy that can get us a good label. Then we move to the appetizer which has to be  _gougères_  because I know how much you love it."

"I  _do_ love  _gougères_. _"_ She smiled.

"Then we'll move on to the  _brandade,_  of course not without the  _baguette_  on the side."

"That's my favorite French dish." She smiled knowingly.

"No kidding?" he feigned surprise and smiled. "Then we'll progress to assorted cheeses and more  _baguettes_ …"

"And dessert?" she prodded.

"Impatient," he teased,."Of course we'll finish off with  _crème_ _brûlée_ because I also know  _that_  is your favorite."

"Sounds delicious," Natasha purred, her mouth watering already.

"It's not the only thing," he rumbled, rolling her over and bracing himself over her with his elbows.

"You make me that dinner and I promise," she smirked seductively, "that you'll be rewarded."

"Oh really?"

"Mhmm," she purred, running her hands up his back.

"What if we just skip the dinner?"

"Not the way it works."

"Then what if I want my reward in advance?"

"I may be willing to agree to that."

Clint smiled and covered her mouth with his.

* * *

Natasha woke gradually, as she tended to with Clint's arms wrapped around her. She stretched humming in contentment and felt him stir behind her. He mumbled something into the back of her neck and shifted.

"You don't need to get up yet," she assured quietly, snuggling closer into his chest. His arm tightened around her and then relaxed. His soft breaths tickled the back of her neck, making her smile.

"What time is it?" he murmured, not moving a muscle.

"Early," she replied, tossing a glance at the bedside clock. "Quarter to five," she clarified.

"Hmmm," he shifted, "fifteen more minutes."

She smiled at his sleepy tone. She thought he'd drifted off again when he spoke suddenly, sounding more awake.

"So I've been thinking…" he rumbled, shifting slightly, "we keep having this issue…"

"Issue?" She wondered.

"Your Makarovs in my room, my Desert Eagles in your room, my boxers in  _my_  room…"

"It has been an inconvenience," she admitted. "No different than it's been for the past four years, though."

"Yeah, but when we lived on the SHIELD base we were always coming and going. We lived out of go-bags anyway. It was nothing to drop it in one room or another when we got back on base."

"I see your point," she allowed. "So what are you suggesting? Living out of go-bags?"

"No." He chuckled lightly against her neck. "I'm suggesting it might be easier all around if everything was in  _one_  room."

Natasha rolled over, forcing him to roll onto his back to get out of her way.

"Are you saying we should share a room?"

"Yeah." He rubbed a hand through his hair almost self consciously.

"As in 'move in together'."

"That's the idea."

She stared at him for a long moment, surprised. Then she smiled.

"Your room or mine?"

"Whichever one gets you to say yes."

Natasha feigned deep thought and snuggled into his side.

"My room has a better view of the city."

"True." He nodded.

"Mine has a bigger closet."

"Also true."

"Yours is farther from everybody else's."

"Fair point."

"It also has more square footage."

"Yup."

"Mine has a bigger bathroom."

He hummed in agreement.

She grew silent.

"No more pros and cons?" he wondered.

"Nope."

"So you've decided?"

"Yes. " She pushed herself up onto her elbow. "Clint, will you move in with me?"

He smiled.

"You're going to have to give up some closet space."

"I'll find a place to squeeze your things in."

"Your generosity is overwhelming."

* * *

"Now fold it over onto itself," Clint instructed.

Natasha obediently slid her long spatula under one half of the omelet and folded it over.

"Very good," he praised, going back to the bacon he was monitoring.

"Not the most difficult thing you've taught me how to cook," she shrugged.

"We got an ETA on breakfast?" Tony demanded as he strode into the kitchen.

"What he  _means_  is it's so nice of you two to always cook for everybody and he's really looking forward to whatever you've prepared today," Pepper added as she followed a step behind him.

"Awe, Tony, that's so sweet," Clint teased. "Just for that, I might even let you have some."

"What is it this morning? I smell bacon." Tony ignored him and leaned between the two assassins to assess for himself what they were making.

Clint pushed him back with an elbow to the chest.

"Bacon, omelets, and toast."

"Is there coffee?" Tony asked, peering around Clint's shoulder to see the bacon.

"There will be when you make it," Clint shot back, threatening him with a glare to  _back up_.

Tony raised his hands in defeat and wandered over to the coffee machine. He stared at it for a moment before Pepper suddenly nudged him aside and started the process herself.

"When was the last time you made your own coffee?" she teased.

"I've done it once," Tony defended.

"Name that one time," she challenged.

"When you took that vacation."

"Did you drink it?"

"I don't see how that's relevant."

Pepper nodded as if her point was proven.

"Food's almost ready," Clint announced, starting to pull the bacon off the griddle and putting it on a plate.

"Did I hear the food was almost ready?" Steve asked as he came into the room, wearing black athletic shorts and a white t-shirt, sweating from what was probably a several dozen mile run.

"Just about," Clint confirmed.

"Where are Thor and Bruce?" Steve asked as he accepted the water bottle Tony tossed him from the fridge.

"Right here," Bruce replied as he walked into the room. "Thor is finishing up a video call with Jane."

Clint leaned towards Natasha.

"It's like they can sense when the food is ready and all show up conveniently  _after_  it's cooked."

"I'm pretty sure it's planned that way," She replied in the same whispered tone.

"What are you two crazy killers whispering about?" Tony poked his head between them.

"I'll tell you if you come closer," Clint promised. Tony leaned a little closer.

"Closer," Natasha urged, "it's a secret."

Tony leaned closer still.

Clint flicked him hard in the forehead with his forefinger.

"None of your damn business," he stated in a conspiratorial whisper.

Tony drew back with an affronted scowl.

"Hardly necessary."

Clint hummed doubtfully as Tony gave him a wounded look.

Clint pushed a plate into his hands.

"Get the toast from the toaster."

"Only because you asked so nicely."

Clint brought the plate of bacon to the breakfast table and returned to help Natasha bring the seven different plates with unique omelets on them. He'd made most of them and had been keeping them in the oven to stay warm. He'd taught Natasha to make her own very last.

Natasha expertly balanced four plates on one arm while carrying another with her other hand. Clint brought the last two on one arm and brought the orange juice with the other. Pepper, with Steve's help, retrieved glasses and coffee mugs and Bruce brought the freshly brewed coffee to the table. They were just sitting down when Thor arrived.

"My deepest apologies for my late arrival, my friends. Jane was regaling me with the tale of her most recent discoveries," he explained as he took his seat between Tony and Bruce.

"Anything interesting?" Bruce asked.

"I admit, I understood very little of what she told me, but she seemed very pleased."

"Well that's good." Pepper smiled. "When are you leaving to see her?"

"In one week's time."

Thor tucked into his omelet with a large smile.

"A greater use of the eggs of poultry I have never tasted, Noble Archer, I believe you have surpassed even the last omelet that you prepared."

"Glad you like it," Clint laughed.

Natasha nudged him with her foot and he glanced at her. They had decided it was only right to let the group know about their soon to change accommodations. Not out of any need to share their personal lives, but because just moving Clint's stuff into Natasha's room without telling anyone seemed unreasonably sneaky and somehow deceptive.

"So I'm going to be moving all my stuff into Natasha's room," he announced with an almost awkwardly abrupt bluntness. He quickly forked a bite of his omelet into his mouth. Natasha rolled her eyes.

Everyone was silent for a moment, blinking at them. Then several things happened at once.

"You're moving in together? That's so sweet," Pepper crooned with a wide smile.

Steve's face flushed red at the thought of them sharing a room.

Bruce smiled, both he and the other guy happy for them.

Thor looked mildly confused, as if he didn't understand the significance of the announcement.

Tony, oddly, didn't say a thing. He just smiled knowingly, met Clint's eyes across the table and nodded once in congratulatory approval. Clint cracked a smile and nodded back.

"How long, exactly, have you been together?" Pepper asked, folding her hands and resting her chin on them. She was smiling broadly and staring at them expectantly.

"Almost four years," Natasha volunteered, only because it had been Pepper that asked and that woman was just too nice to refuse. Pepper looked like she was ready to sell their story to Hollywood right there.

She opened her mouth, no doubt to ask another question about something Clint did not think was anyone else's business. Before she could voice her thoughts though, Jarvis came over the speakers, pulling all their attention away.

" _Sir, Director Fury has just arrived."_

"What's Cyclops want?" Tony frowned.

"To speak with Agent Romanoff," Fury announced as he strode into the room. He sent Tony a withering glare.

Natasha and Clint started to rise immediately.

" _Just_  Agent Romanoff," Fury corrected.

Clint dropped back down into his seat with only a mild glare in Fury's direction. Natasha would tell him about whatever it was later. She promised as much with a look before following Fury out of the room.

Clint sat back in his chair and stared after them. It wasn't the first time Natasha had been briefed for a mission without him. Fury had split them up after not long after Vietnam. He said it was because they were too highly effective alone to put them both on an assignment unless absolutely warranted. It had been deemed absolutely necessary several times over the last three and a half, almost four years. Budapest would always be the one that stood out the most in his mind.

Clint thought splitting them up had something to do with the fact that he and Natasha were sleeping together. Fury hadn't admitted to knowing that at the time, but Clint knew the man had eyes and ears everywhere. All it would have taken was one nosey SHEILD employee to notice them going into each other's rooms at night and not coming out.

Needless to say they'd been relegated to solo operatives for almost the entire time they'd been together. They were used to watching each other leaving on missions. They were used to accepting that for an undetermined amount of time, they'd be out of contact completely.

It didn't mean either of them liked it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 2
> 
> I know, not much action or anything. It's all with a purpose though, I promise! I wanted everyone to know exactly where Natasha and Clint were in their relationship because everything is about to hit the fan in the next chapter ...I just can't cut these two a break, can I? (cue evil laugh) :D
> 
> Now I dont' claim to be a connoisseur of French food, but I have been to France so my food choices weren't completely blind. However, I have no knowledge of whether or not these different selections actually work together in a meal. So...sorry. Here is a brief discription of what Clint was talking about:
> 
> Gougères - These are bite sized cheese puffs made from choux pastry.
> 
> Baguette - A long skinny loaf of French bread that is served with the entrée and will stay on the table until dessert.
> 
> Brandade - Cod fish is pureed, seasoned, and maybe mixed with milk or potatoes, then baked to make a casserole.
> 
> Crème brûlée - A cream dessert that is topped with hard caramelized sugar.
> 
>  
> 
> Here's your preview:
> 
> "You realize that's a perpetual motion toy. You don't have to touch it to keep it moving."
> 
> "I know what it is," Clint replied easily, tapping the tiny metal rod again. Tony reached out and stopped the contraption with his hand. Clint sat back, unconcerned. "Why do you even have that thing if you hate it so much?"
> 
> "Pepper gave it to me."


	3. I Am Damaged At Best

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Enjoy Chapter 3! :)

_Revenge is a confession of pain_

**_Latin Proverb_   
**

* * *

Natasha followed Fury into the living room, well away from the prying ears of the rest of the team. He immediately pulled a file from somewhere in the folds of his long leather jacket and held it out to her.

"Location?" she asked, her tone brisk and professional.

"Great Britain, specifically London," he answered.

"Target?"

"Does the name Conrad Baskov mean anything to you?"

"Former KGB assassin," she responded immediately. "He works for the highest bidder now and no one has had eyes on him in a decade."

"SHIELD resources in London spotted him less than ten hours ago."

Natasha scanned the brief quickly.

"Elimination?"

"Yes."

"Why me?" she asked curiously. "A distance kill is makes the most sense for a guy like this. Barton is a better choice."

"We've had surveillance on him. He's smart. He's never in the open without a crowd of people around him and he's never out for long. Not to mention he blacked out his safe house windows."

"Why not storm the safe house?"

"He's hiding in plain sight. He's staying in a townhouse neighbored on either side by families with children. Like I said, he smart. We can't breach the house without risking collateral damage."

"Since when has that stopped you?" she challenged.

Fury's eyebrow rose.

"You've been spending too much time with Barton."

Natasha just stared at him, not retracting her words.

Fury sighed and rolled his eye heavenward. It was as bad as dealing with the archer himself. God help him if Romanoff started trying his patience like Barton did.

"Just get in quietly, get the job done, and get out. That's the reason we're sending you alone. This needs to be quick and quiet. No one's better at that than you."

She nodded curtly. In her history with SHIELD this was nowhere near the most difficult assignment she'd ever been given. She'd infiltrated entire compounds on her own and taken everyone out without getting more than a shiner on her cheek and a few bruised ribs.

Baskov himself would be a challenge, but she thrived on challenges.

"I'll get it done. When do I leave?"

"1800 hours."

"Tonight?" she asked before she could stop herself.

"Is that a problem?" he asked with another arch of his eyebrow, but there was slight confusion in his eyes. Natasha had never questioned a deployment time before.

"No," she assured. "I'll be ready."

"Good. Happy hunting, Agent Romanoff."

She watched him leave and slowly sat down on the arm of the couch. She glanced towards the door, wondering how to tell Clint. He'd understand. He knew how their jobs worked. It could have just as easily been him headed out this evening.

It didn't mean he'd like it though.

* * *

Clint looked up from where he was finishing off the last of the food on his plate, watching her return from her meeting with Fury. She met his eyes immediately and he knew. He tried not to let his disappointment show on his face. Her lips quirked apologetically.

"Let me guess," Tony spoke up first, "you're leaving on a super secret spy mission you can't talk about."

"You're like a detective," Natasha agreed dryly.

"When do you leave?" Pepper asked.

"Tonight," Natasha revealed, glancing quickly at Clint, who offered her silent assurance with his storm colored gaze. He understood, he always understood.

"Tonight?" Pepper looked crestfallen. "But tomorrow's your seven year anniversary!"

"I think they realize that," Bruce pointed out quietly. "It's that urgent?" he asked Natasha.

She nodded sharply.

"Well that sucks." Tony frowned, sitting back in his chair and looking like it had been  _his_  seventh anniversary that was ruined.

"Comes with the job," Clint shrugged, picking up his plate and moving back to the kitchen without another word.

"Yeah, he's so not okay with this," Tony scoffed. He held his hands up in defense at Natasha's glare.

"Just," she closed her eyes briefly and held up a hand, "stay here."

She gathered her plate and followed Clint to the kitchen.

He was roughly scrubbing at dried cheese on his plate. She quietly placed her dishes on the counter and moved to his side.

"There's a dishwasher that does that," she pointed out quietly.

"But then how would I take out my frustration without anybody noticing," he countered, abruptly tossing the plate and scrubber down. They landed with a loud clatter in the sink. He braced his hands on the front edge of the counter. "It's like he  _knows_."

"He doesn't know," Natasha countered. "Coulson was the only one that ever knew we celebrated on that day."

"Why the hell am I not in on the mission?" he demanded.

"It's a quick in and out that needs to be as silent as possible."

Clint sighed. He knew what that meant. He knew that the more people on a mission the more chance you had of being spotted. It made sense in an annoying way.

"This sucks," he muttered.

"It always does," she reminded. "But it's what we signed up for."

"I know." He pushed off the sink and turned to look at her. "I'll just cook you the amazing dinner when you get back and we'll celebrate then."

"It will be a nice relaxing follow up to moving your stuff into  _our_  room," she agreed, allowing him to pull her into a hug.

"What time does your flight leave?"

"1800."

"So we've got the day?"

"Most of it." She smiled, pulling back from the hug, but not out of his arms. "We could spar."

"Always fun." He grinned.

"Then shower."

His grin turned to a smirk.

"Then you can help me pack."

"And that'll take  _at least_  a few hours."

She smiled.

"At least."

* * *

Natasha left the tower quietly. The rest of the team was in the living room watching the news when she walked past the door with nothing more than a wave. She and Clint had sparred for about an hour before disappearing into her room for the rest of the day. Clint, for his part, walked with her all the way to the garage, where she threw her leg over her own black Ducati, a smaller, leaner version of his own motorcycle.

"See you in a few days," she offered with a small smile.

"You better." He grinned, leaning forward and giving her a deep, long kiss. When he pulled back she was smiling.

"With a goodbye like that how can I not hurry home?"

"Береги себя, мой огненный паук," he whispered their nearly four year old parting words almost gently.  _(Be safe, my fiery spider.)_

"Always," she promised, running her thumb across the side of his jaw for only a moment before pulling away and revving her bike to life. He stepped back and as she toed up the kick stand. She gave him one last smile before roaring out of the garage.

Clint stood there for a several minutes, long after her taillight had disappeared from view. He wasn't worried. Natasha could more than take care of herself and was better at these up close and personal kills than he would ever be. And he was  _great_  at them.

She'd be back in a few days and they'd celebrate seven years.

* * *

The team looked ridiculously melancholy when he joined them in the living room.

"Are you okay?" Pepper asked gently.

"I'm fine," Clint replied as if it were an unwarranted question. "Tasha and I haven't officially been partnered for about three and half years. We're used to it," he shrugged.

"But it's your anniversary!" Pepper frowned.

"We'll celebrate when she gets back." Clint waved away her concern. "It's not the first time we've had to postpone plans for a mission. Won't be the last either."

"I know how my heart aches while I am parted with my Jane," Thor comforted, his normally booming voice quiet, but still managing to command the room, "I admire your strength in this separation, Noble Archer."

"Thanks Big Guy." Clint's smile was mostly genuine and only a bit patronizing. "But I'm fine."

Bruce patted his shoulder as he walked out of the room, commenting about a late night of research ahead of him.

"Guys, if he says he's fine, he's fine," Steve assured the group, who still looked like they were going to start bawling over the injustice of it all. Clint shot him a grateful look, only to inwardly roll his eyes when Steve's expression almost immediately morphed to communicate something along the lines of  _'Stay strong, buddy'_.

Only Tony remained silent, watching curiously, but not commenting. Which is how Clint  _knew_  he was going to hear about it later.

* * *

Clint tapped his finger against the tiny metal rod, watching the force send the elaborate contraption into faster motion. He stared at it for a few moments, before repeating the action.

Tony glanced up from his computer.

"You realize that's a perpetual motion toy. You don't have to touch it to keep it moving."

"I know what it is," Clint replied easily, tapping the tiny metal rod again. Tony reached out and stopped the contraption with his hand. Clint sat back, unconcerned. "Why do you even have that thing if you hate it so much?"

"Pepper gave it to me."

Clint nodded because, really, that explained it. He drummed his fingers on the table and glancing around.

"So," Tony glanced at him briefly before returning his attention to the screens in front of him. "Today's the day, huh?"

"Yep." Clint rolled his chair towards the newest prototype of his new uniform. It was untested as of yet. Clint eyed one of the testing guns on the table. Abruptly he stood and rolled the uniform stand to the other side of the room.

"Wanna talk about anything?" Tony hedged, watching him carefully.

"No," Clint replied simply, moving back to the testing guns.

He quickly and efficiently loaded one and then emptied the entire clip into the prototype. Tony gave him an unbelieving look behind his back and watched him go to check the uniform. He couldn't hold back the slight grin at the purple screen printed quiver across Clint's back and the words he knew were emblazoned across the front in scrawly purple letters.

"Still needs some work," Clint announced, unaware or at least not acknowledging Tony's scrutiny.

"You're worried."

"No I'm not."

"Something's bothering you."

"Nope," Clint denied, still facing the prototype.

"Clint."

"Tony." The archer mocked his tone and glared over his shoulder.

Tony rolled his eyes.

"You're impossible."

"This coming from  _you_ , the proverbial thorn in SHIELD's side," Clint laughed, making his way back over to him.

"Ah, but I fully acknowledge and embrace my antics and their effort to annoy Fury as much as possible. You, my friend, are planted firmly in the land of denial."

Clint sighed, tapping the perpetual motion toy into action again. Tony glared at him and he smirked.

"This is me, embracing my antics and their effort to annoy you," Clint mocked.

"Is this what it's like to talk to me?"

"Pretty much."

Tony hummed, contemplating apologizing to the general public. He quickly dismissed the thought. His witty intelligence was a gift to society. Clint pushed away from the table and wandered the lab, stopping at a new arrow Tony was in the middle of designing. Tony watched him closely.

"I thought you didn't make plans," he commented suddenly.

He saw Clint's shoulders tense and silently congratulated himself for catching the archer off guard.

"What?" Clint kept his back to him as he replied. Tony was just bound and determined to have a  _talk._

"In South Africa, you told me that you and the Russian didn't make plans for a future that wasn't guaranteed. But now here you are, making plans."

"For  _dinner_ , Tony," Clint scoffed, turning around. "It's not like we're putting a down payment on a house. And besides, she's coming back. She's the  _best_  at this kind of mission. They won't even know she's there until it's too late."

"I'm just saying…moving in together, making dinner dates," Tony shrugged, "Sounds like planning to me."

Clint shrugged.

"We've been together for almost four years, the only reason we weren't already sharing a room is that until a year ago we were never in the same place long enough for it to really matter."

"And the dinner?"

"It's  _dinner_." Clint threw his hands up. "So I made a plan. She's coming back," he insisted. "This mission is nothing compared to some of the other situations she's been sent into."

Tony smiled.

" _Why_  are you smiling?" Clint demanded.

"Because, Feather Head,  _you made a plan_. And to me that's one step closer to your private island paradise."

"You watch way too many chic-flicks." Clint shook his head in disbelief.

Tony shrugged and went back to his screens. Clint shook his head again, smiling. He could never tell his friend how much his hope for Clint and Natasha's future meant to him. Somebody had to hope for it, might as well be his closest friend. He looked up at the ceiling and then sighed, moving around the table. He clapped Tony on the shoulder as he passed.

"Thanks, Iron Ass."

Tony smiled at his screens.

* * *

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Steve hedged, pulling on his sparring gloves.

"With Tasha gone, you're the only one that can give me a good workout," Clint insisted, securing his own gloves and stretching his neck from side to side.

"But what if I hit you?" Steve frowned. He'd been working for months on controlling his strength, but he still had moments where he hit way harder than he intended. And he was overly cautious after the last incident they'd had. Clint may have claimed to be fine, but Steve had noticed a stiffness in his movements that wasn't normal.

Clint actually scoffed at him.

"You won't hit me."

"You seem confident today." Steve smiled.

"It feels like it's going to be a pretty good day." Clint smiled back. "Now come on, Capsicle, take your best shot."

Steve raised his gloves and tapped one against Clint's outstretched hand.

They circled each other. Steve struck first, a sharp hook that Clint ducked under easily. He followed with a quick jab that Clint dodged. Satisfied that his friend was on his game, Steve threw all his focus into just trying to land a hit.

Fifteen minutes later he watched in confusion as Clint retreated back towards the ropes. He pursued him, only to watch in awe as Clint turned suddenly, wrapped his hands around the top rope, and jumped. He planted his feet on the rope, coiled his body and then exploded up and backwards.

Steve watched him flip up and over him to land lightly behind him. He barely felt the boot to the back of his knee, but the join collapsed anyway. His knee hit the mat and then suddenly Clint's boot was headed at his head. He caught the boot in his hand and pushed it back, sending Clint sprawling to the mat. He was already tucking into a backwards roll before the momentum of the push even started to wear off. He came up in a crouch, watching Steve rise and move towards him.

He waited until the last moment and sprung into a back hand spring just as Steve drew back a fist. The hit whistled through the air and Steve nearly smiled. Clint was damn fast. He followed him across the ring.

By the time they stopped twenty five minutes later, they were both breathing hard and drenched in sweat.

"I almost had you for a second." Steve smiled.

" _Almost_  being the key word, Cap." Clint grinned, sliding through the ropes and jumping to the floor. He tossed Steve a water bottle and opened one for himself.

"How did you get so fast?" The Captain shook his head in amazement.

"Phil," Clint answered simply. "Don't know if you've noticed, but I'm on the smaller side."

Steve titled his head in acknowledgement, he could relate to that.

"Phil taught me that my advantage was my speed. I can't always dodge every hit, but I can damn sure dodge most of them. Too bad it didn't apply to bullets," Clint laughed, taking a drink from his own water bottle.

"How many times  _have_  you been shot?"

"Too many." Clint shook his head. "And I know about the bet, so nice try."

"Tony told you."

"Guy's got a big mouth." Clint grinned. "I already told him Natasha's gonna win."

"She didn't make a bet," Steve revealed.

"Really?" Clint was surprised.

"She said it wouldn't be fair. Pepper's only guessed once though and she was pretty confident," Steve revealed with a knowing arch to his eyebrows. Clint laughed.

"Then  _Pepper's_  definitely going to win, because I'd bet Natasha told her exactly what the magic number was."

"See, that's not fair. She's got insider information," Steve protested with a laugh.

Clint shrugged, finishing off his water.

"So when's she due back?" Steve asked as they made their way out of the gym.

"Late tomorrow."

"Has she been in contact at all?"

"She called me from her secure sat phone yesterday. She couldn't talk long, but contact at all is rare, so it was better than nothing."

"At least you got to talk to her on the anniversary. That's something."

Clint shrugged.

"Yeah. She's running the op sometime today, so she should be on a flight home in the morning."

* * *

Nick Fury stormed into the control room with a flurry of flying leather.

"What's the situation?" he barked.

"She breached the house and then all hell broke loose," Maria Hill announced from where she stood tensely in front of the main console.

"Are we live?"

"Yes, it's been silent for several seconds now."

As if on cue, a disembodied voice filtered across their communications. It was a little distorted, obviously a short distance away.

" _Get rid of the body. Where no one can find it."_

"Is that Baskov?"

"Voice ID confirms it."

"Damn it." Fury slammed his fist against the console. "Play it all back. Everybody listen for  _anything_  to tell us if she's still alive."

Maria nodded at the tech controlling the comms and a few moments later Natasha's voice came across the line.

" _Breaching the window now,"_ she murmured in a tone that only they would hear. There was a slight sound of a window sliding open and then the soft landing of her feet on the floor inside the house. For a few moments all they heard was her quiet breathing as she moved silently through the town home.

"Where was Baskov?" Fury demanded.

"Her surveillance before entry showed him on the top floor," Hill responded immediately.

They waited as Natasha undoubtedly went up the stairs.

" _Hey!"_

There was a sudden scuffle and the sound of bones breaking.

" _One down,"_  Natasha whispered under her breath, and they knew she'd be moving again.

Then, without warning, gunfire erupted. There was a sudden thud over the line, like a body dropping, and then silence for several long agonizing seconds.

" _Get rid of the body. Where no one can find it."_

Then the line went to static.

"They knew she was coming." Fury scowled.

"How?"

"That's a good question."

"Sir…" Maria started only to pause briefly in indecision, "What do we do?"

"Nothing," Fury stated. "You know the protocol. Wipe her from the system," he instructed. As Maria moved to a work consol a distance away, Fury approached the main computer. He slid a flash drive out of his pocket and into the computer. With a few clicks he transferred everything they had on the mission and Baskov to the drive and then slid it back into his jacket.

He turned to leave the room.

"Where are you going?" Maria asked urgently.

Fury didn't even glance over his shoulder as he stormed out.

* * *

"Now flip it into the air," Clint instructed. He watched two pans on either side of him flip up. "Seriously Tony? All you did was make it jump a fraction of a centimeter off the pan."

"It's not as easy as it looks, Big Bird," Tony defended.

"I did it!" Pepper announced happily, showing Clint her freshly flipped pancake with pride.

"Very good." He laughed. "Now just keep doing that and you'll never need a spatula for pancakes again."

"Whoever invented the concept of having breakfast for dinner was  _brilliant._ " Steve grinned widely as he inhaled the smell of pancakes and sausage.

"Indeed, I must agree." Thor nodded heartily.

"Is something burning?" Bruce frowned.

Clint glanced at Tony, to see him checking something on his phone while not paying attention to his pancake. It was turning an interesting shade of dark brown.

"That one's  _yours_ , Metal for Brains." Clint laughed.

" _Agent Barton, Director Fury is here to see you,"_ Jarvis announced.

Clint was still chuckling as he tossed his kitchen towel from his shoulder to the counter. He wondered absently if Fury had a mission for  _him_ now. It would be just his luck if he shipped out as Natasha shipped in.

The Director appeared in the doorway to the kitchen suddenly and Clint nodded in greeting. It took him exactly .3 seconds to process the deadly serious look on his boss's face. Everything inside him tightened painfully.

"Agent Barton, please follow me."

Clint stood frozen for a moment, every muscle in his body locked in fear.  _Natasha._

The need to know what had happened spurred him forward. He followed Fury into the living room.

"What's the situation?" he demanded.

"Barton…"

"Is she injured? Captured? What? How soon can we be mobilized?"

"Clint…"

Clint's insides froze.  _No._

"They knew she was coming. They were waiting with automatic weapons and you know she doesn't wear Kevlar."

"It slows her down," Clint breathed absently, his brain refusing to process what Fury was trying to tell him. "So she's wounded?" She had to be wounded; he couldn't acknowledge any other possibility.

"Barton," Fury looked deeply pained, "she's not wounded. She's been designated KIA."

And it was there, in the living room of what had somewhere along the line become his home, that Clint Barton's world stopped turning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 3
> 
> And now the real meat of the story begins.
> 
> Please don't hunt me down and kill me yet! :) Thanks for reading!
> 
> Here's your preview
> 
> "You don't get it, do you?" Tony shook his head in shock.
> 
> "All I know, is that if there is anyone that can kill these bastards and come out the other side, it's Barton."
> 
> "Don't you get it, Fury?" Steve's voice shook with anger. "It's not about coming out the other side! Clint won't go in with an exit strategy! He'll go in and he won't plan on coming out."


	4. I May Have Lost My Way Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.

_When you begin a journey of revenge, start by digging two graves: one for your enemy, and one for yourself._

**_Jodi Picoult_   
**

* * *

"You're wrong," Clint denied. He  _had_  to be wrong.

"I'm sorry Barton," Fury stated calmly. "I know what she meant to you."

Clint scoffed derisively, because honestly Fury had no fucking clue. Natasha didn't just  _mean_  something to him. She was  _part_ of him.

"She's not dead," Clint insisted irrationally. She  _couldn't_  be dead. He couldn't survive it if she was dead.

"I heard the recording from her comm. unit myself," Fury stated almost gently. "You need to accept it, Barton."

"What's SHIELD doing about it?" Clint demanded, because 'accepting it' wasn't something he could think about right now.

Fury gave him a heavy look.

"You know the protocol for this type of situation, Barton. SHIELD is washing their hands of it. We're covert. We don't exist. If she got tied back to us in any way it has the potential to create an international incident."

Clint shook his head and looked away, a sudden hysterical and irrational anger coming over him.

He was on Fury in two strides, driving the taller man back against the large floor to ceiling windows at the back of the living room. He slammed him back hard enough the glass shook.

"Where was she?" he growled, on hand around Fury's throat, the other holding his hand and the flash drive that had suddenly appeared in it against the glass.

"London," Fury responded immediately. Not making any effort to free himself.

" _Where_  in London!" Clint snapped. He knew the basics, Natasha had told him before she left. Now he needed the specifics.

"All the mission details and everything we have on her target are on this flash drive."

Clint's eyes flashed to the drive and then back to Fury. His glare took on a hint of confusion.

"Take it, Barton," Fury hissed. "Finish what she started."

Clint ripped the flash drive out of his hand and with one last hard shove sent Fury's back and head cracking against the glass. Then he retreated a step, still glaring darkly.

"You shouldn't have sent her alone."

"We still don't know how they found out she was coming," Fury defended sharply. "This was a cake walk for someone of her skills."

"What went wrong?" Clint demanded angrily.

"We  _don't know_!" Fury snapped before locking down the emotion that was starting to rise in him as well.

Clint glared darkly at him.

"So SHIELD just washes their hands and walks away?" Clint scoffed derisively. "After everything she's given you? That's real loyalty."

"You knew the protocol when you signed up," Fury pointed out. "And so did she."

Clint fisted his hand around the flash drive and glanced towards the door.

"You both knew it could end this way one day."

"Phil never would have done this," Clint shot as he moved for the door. "He never would have left her out there."  _Never would have left her out there to die alone._

"Don't I know it," Fury sighed. "But Phil's not here."

"No. And that's never been more obvious."

Fury didn't let the dig get to him. He knew it was the agent's pain talking. He watched Barton continue towards the door.

"There's no extraction in this, Barton. No team to back you up. SHIELD can't have any part of it."

Clint's glare was dark when he turned back, reminiscent of his first days at SHIELD ten long years ago. But he was older now, more deadly than he'd ever been, and it was terrifying.

"That's fine," Clint assured, "because I don't work for SHIELD anymore."

And then he was gone.

Fury released a deep breath and moved to the back of the nearest couch, leaning heavily against it. He tried, unsuccessfully to push away a feeling that he'd just betrayed Phil Coulson in the worst way. He'd not only let one of his agents get killed on his watch, but he'd just sent Clint Barton, Phil's  _legacy_ and greatest pride, on a mission of destruction. He'd just let Clint Barton walk away from SHIELD. If Phil were alive, he would never have forgiven him.

* * *

Clint moved around his room in a flurry, grabbing his already packed go-bag and slamming open his footlocker. He pulled out his weapons bag and moved to the closet. He slid into his black jacket and shouldered his quiver, stowing his bow in its place at the small of his back. Both his knives, from Natasha and Phil, were already sheathed at his back. They were the first thing he strapped on in the mornings. He snatched his bike keys off his bedside table and slid his laptop into his bag.

The whole thing took less than two minutes.

He made a beeline for the stairwell and took them two at a time to the garage.

* * *

"They've been gone for a long time," Pepper noticed nervously.

"Jarvis, what's going on?" Tony demanded.

The others remained silent, their dinner uneaten on the table in front of them.

" _Agent Barton and Director Fury had an altercation. Agent Barton just left the tower on his motorcycle."_

"Left?!" Steve stood urgently. The rest of the group followed his quick path out into the hallway. Fury was in the living room when they arrived there, leaning against the back of a couch, looking decades older than he was.

"What the hell is going on?" Tony snapped.

"Classified, Stark, it's not in your need to know, you're not SHIELD, remember?"

"I am," Steve pointed out sharply. "What's happening? Where's Clint?"

"Probably on his way to the airport," Fury admitted as he straightened.

"Why?" Tony demanded, something in his gut telling him something terrible had happened.

Fury sighed deeply before seeming to come to a decision.

"Agent Romanoff is dead."

The entire group paled. Pepper collapsed into a chair and Tony moved to her side. Bruce and Thor both stood in silent shock and Steve leaned over to brace his hands on the back of the chair in front of him.

"We got the report less than an hour ago."

"And you told Clint," Steve surmised.

"Yes."

"He's going after them," Tony realized, "whoever did this."

Fury nodded once.

"Where?" Bruce demanded, his eyes glowing neon green for a moment before fading back to their normal color.

Fury took a calculated step away from him.

"I can't tell you that."

"Why the hell not?" Tony barked.

"Because I can't risk this whole team and create an international incident!" Fury replied sharply, but there was  _something_  in the Director's eyes as he said it. Something that said it was his duty talking, not him. "Barton is the best. He'll handle it."

"You gave him information," Tony realized darkly. "You gave him what he needed to find them."

"Yes." Fury didn't deny it.

"Why?" the Captain demanded. "You knew what he'd do!"

"I was counting on it!" Fury barked.

"Your hope is that Clint Barton will bring these men to justice," Thor spoke up. His tone was subdued, but no less authoritative.

"If anyone can, it's him. No one else in the world would be more motivated."

"You don't get it, do you?" Tony shook his head in shock.

"All I know is that if there is  _any_ _one_  that can kill these bastards and come out the other side, it's Barton."

"Don't you get it, Fury?" Steve's voice shook with anger, "It's not about coming out the other side! Clint won't go in with an exit strategy! He'll go in and he won't plan on coming out."

"Barton is a survivor. He always has been."

"That's not the point," Bruce interjected. "Clint may be a survivor, but that won't matter if he doesn't plan on surviving."

Fury's eye narrowed at that.

"Where is he going?" Tony demanded in a forcibly calm and measured tone, but there was a worry in his eyes that Fury had never seen before.

"I'm sorry gentlemen. But I've already done more than I should have. Barton is on his own. He's probably already bought a ticket and boarded his plane by now."

Fury spun away and strode quickly out of the room.

Tony frowned thoughtfully and then realization dawned in his eyes.

"Fury you sly bastard."

"What?" Steve demanded.

"Fury mentioned the airport," Tony replied. "He said Clint would be buying a ticket. He's telling us Clint  _has_ to use a plane to get wherever he's headed. He may not be able to tell us the specifics because of those ass hats of Council members but he's giving us a fighting chance."

"Can you find him through the airlines?" Pepper asked hopefully.

"It's worth a shot," Tony nodded firmly.

"Do it," Steve demanded.

* * *

Jack Markam glanced over his shoulder when he felt someone watching him. His skilled eyes caught sight of a shadowed figure in the nearest dark corner of the parking garage of JFK International Airport. He'd recognize that stature and that piercing blue grey gaze anywhere. He'd been at SHIELD long enough to have flown their most notorious assassin at least once.

"I'll catch up to you, Miles," he tossed at his co-pilot as he made his way towards the SHIELD agent.

Clint stepped out of the shadows to meet him. He had his quiver strapped onto his back, a go-bag slung over his shoulder, and a weapons bag.

"Barton," Jack greeted his curiosity betrayed in his tone.

"Remember that time I saved you from getting shot down? I'm cashing in. I need a favor."

"For SHIELD?"

Clint just stared at him.

"Right, I'm not SHIELD anymore and everything is classified up your asses over there. What do you need?"

"I need to get to London  _now_  and I need to be untraceable, no name on a flight manifest, no customs."

Markam frowned.

"What's going on, Barton?"

"Can you do it or not?" Clint demanded impatiently.

Markam stared at him thoughtfully then he nodded.

Clint nodded back.

* * *

Tony looked up from his computer screens when he heard someone come into the lab. He watched Pepper make her way slowly towards him. She stood next to his desk silently for a moment, watching the perpetual motion toy she'd gotten him move. Tony watched her quietly, waiting.

"Do you think it's true?" she finally asked quietly.

"Which horrifying part?" he asked with a slight scoff. He shrugged a shoulder apologetically at her pained look.

"Any of it," she clarified. "Natasha being gone? Clint going after her killers with no plan to come back?"

Tony sighed. He'd been wondering about those same things himself as he searched for any indication of where Clint might have hopped a flight to.

"All I know, Pepper," he started in an uncharacteristically serious tone, "is that Clint lives and breathes Natasha. If she's gone,  _really_ gone, he won't be coming back."

"Do you believe Fury?" Pepper asked softly.

"I believe Fury believes she's dead or he wouldn't have done this. Whatever proof he had must have seemed definitive."

"Yeah, but Tony," Pepper stated quietly, "we thought we had definitive proof that  _you_  were dead all those years ago."

Tony stared at her thoughtfully and couldn't help but smile at her optimism. One of them needed to see hope in all of this.

* * *

Clint sat back against the cargo hold of the large jet that would be his transport to London. Markam had gotten him onto the jet fairly easily. There were no questions even asked. The former SHIELD pilot apparently was owed a lot of favors around the airline.

And even better, there was no way for anyone to track him this way. No electronic paper trail to follow.

He rested his head back, sighing deeply. He needed to sleep. This would be the best time to do it, but he knew if he did that his dreams would be filled with her. His subconscious would twist what he knew until it was vivid and gut wrenching. But he had to sleep. Because he had to be sharp enough to get the bastard responsible for this before they took him down.

He closed his eyes and let sleep come.

* * *

"There's no trace of him boarding  _any_  flight  _anywhere,_ " Tony growled in frustration angrily pushing his holographic screen to the side. "He's got to be in the air by now and that means he's getting farther away."

"Did you try private charters?" Bruce suggested.

"Yes," Tony sighed.

"Does he have his own plane stashed somewhere?" Steve wondered.

"If he did, I doubt we'd know about it," Tony sighed.

"So what? We just give up?" Pepper snapped.

"No," Tony refused sharply. "He had to have left a trace,  _somewhere_. I just have to find it."

"Keep looking," Steve ordered, pacing across the lab.

* * *

_Natasha shifted, gently running her finger over a circular scar on Clint's right side._

_"This one," she decided._

_"You should recognize that one," he smirked. "You put it there three years ago when I was_ **_trying_ ** _to save your life."_

_She lifted her chin to rest on his chest and smiled._

_"Ah."_

_"Yeah._ **_Ah_ ** _," he chuckled. "My turn."_

_He ran his hand down her bare shoulder, brushing his thumb across a long thin scar on her shoulder blade._

_"This one."_

_She craned her neck to see it, even though she knew which scar he was talking about._

_"Knife in Romania," she explained. "It was early in my career. I wasn't quite so_ _good_ _at convincing people of my point of view."_

_"We both know you've gotten better at that," he teased. "Your turn."_

_Her eyes went first to the knife wound on his upper right chest, but she didn't ask about it. She knew the story now and wound never ask him to repeat it again, because the raw pain his eyes when he'd spoken of his brother's betrayal was something she never wanted to see again._

_Instead, she traced her index finger over a relatively thick several inch long scar on his chest just inside his left shoulder. By her judgment it was three maybe four years old. Which meant it happened not long before he was sent to kill her._

_"This one."_

_"Bullet, believe it or not," he answered immediately._

_"Really?" She sat up on her elbow, looking at the scar fully. It didn't look like his other bullet scars, and he had_ _several_ _to compare with._

_"Yup. Needed surgery to get the bullet out and repair all the damage it did."_

_"How bad was it?"_

_"Lodged in my shoulder blade and tore through all the muscles and tendons between it and the entry point. Almost never fired my bow again."_

_"How did you recover from that?" she wondered, staring intently at the scar. She vaguely remembered noticing that he favored that shoulder at the oddest times during their initial meeting three years ago in France. It was almost as if he would be completely fine then the littlest tweak would cause him pain._

_"SHIELD has the best doctors," he shrugged a little. "And I've been told I'm fairly stubborn."_

_"_ _Fairly_ _?" she challenged with a laugh._

_"So maybe a stronger term is necessary," he admitted. "The point is I recovered and handle my bow just as well now as I did before the bullet tore everything up."_

_"How did it happen?" she asked curiously, flipping her hair over her shoulder and looking down at him from her propped position._

_"Saw a red dot on Phil's chest," Clint explained quietly. "Didn't even have to think about it."_

_"You stepped in front of it," she mused softly. "Like you did for me today."_

_"I'm reckless like that," he murmured, his fingers trailing down the curve of her spine._

_They stared at each other for a long moment before she broke the silence._

_"Your turn."_

_"This one." His fingers stopped their trail on her back and rested on a scar an inch to the left of her spine. She sighed, closing her eyes for a moment as she remembered._

_"Bullet," she revealed._

_"To the back." His eyes darkened in a way she instantly identified. Protectiveness._

_She nodded._

_"Someone I thought I could trust," she paused to shift her position, laying back down on her side and resting her head on the crook of his right shoulder. "I couldn't," she added needlessly._

_"What a pair we make." He sighed; she watched his hand drift to rest on his new bullet wound. He was in pain, she knew, but he didn't complain. Didn't let it show. Her eyes went back to the cluster of three scars on his right side. One, he'd said, was from her. Another, she knew was from their last mission before being assigned this one. She focused on the third, it was nearly the oldest bullet wound she could identify, there was only that was older, right above his left collar bone, it was white with age. She focused on the third of the cluster again._

_"What about that one?" she asked, brushing her thumb across it._

_"Second mission with SHIELD. Council decided I needed a trial by fire and if it weren't for Phil I'd never have made it out."_

_"You get shot a lot, do you realize that?" she shook her head in amused exasperation._

_Clint inclined his head in agreement._

_"People keep trying to kill me. I think the more fascinating part is that I'm still alive."_

_"I think the fascinating part is that no one has tried harder," she teased, tilting her head to look at him._

_He huffed a laugh._

_"Romanoff from left field."_

* * *

Clint opened his eyes, his chest tightening painfully at the memory. Vietnam. He'd been shot and they were on the run. And somehow everything between them had changed. One of the direst situations they'd ever been in, and it was then that they realized what they were to each other, what they could be. They'd jumped the line between partners and something more and never looked back.

It was almost worse than dreaming of her being hurt and killed. Because if she was really gone, he'd never make a memory like that with her again. He buried his hands in his hair, digging his fingers into his scalp. He's spent the last four years knowing this could come one day, but some foolish part of him believed they were too good to ever be taken out by a mark. That fate couldn't be that cruel to him or to her. They'd had lifetimes of pain, both of them. Hers even more extreme than his. And somehow they'd found it in each other to be whole again. She had completed the patch job on his soul that Phil had started ten years ago.

Now they were both gone and his soul was coming apart.

* * *

"I've got it!" Tony sat up suddenly. "I know how to find him."

"How?" Bruce demanded.

"He told me once he kept all his money from his contract killer days in an offshore encrypted bank account. He called it a rainy day fund."

"I think this qualifies," Pepper agreed.

"So?" Steve frowned.

"No matter what, the man's going to need money. He would never pull it from an account he thought anybody could trace. I'm willing to bet he's going to pull from that account," Tony explained.

"Do you know of this accounts' location?" Thor asked.

Tony deflated a little.

"No. But I can find it. I know I can, but my methods might not be strictly  _legal_."

"Do it," Steve snapped. "Whatever it takes."

* * *

Clint fell asleep several times over the next several hours only to flinch awake when memories of his life with her woke him. The happy memories almost more painful that the bad.

He finally gave up on sleeping and glanced at his watch. They were scheduled to land in three hours. He pulled his weapons bag over to him and passed the time cleaning his guns and polishing his knives, doing whatever he could to  _not_  think. To  _not_  remember.

* * *

It took Tony seven hours of furious typing and hacking to find it. An account under the name Brady Stevens, totally over 30 million dollars that hadn't been touched in ten years, until twenty minutes ago.

"I've got him," he announced.

"Where?" Steve demanded.

"London."

"Do you know where in London?" Bruce asked.

"He hit up an ATM just outside Heathrow Airport."

"We must move swiftly as he we have already fallen greatly behind," Thor decided, rising from his chair.

"I'll call the airport and have them fuel your jet," Pepper announced, already pulling out her cell phone.

"Let's gear up." Steve led the way out of the lab.

* * *

Clint stuffed his newly acquired funds into his front pants pocket and pulled a hooded sweatshirt out of his bag. He pulled it on under his jacket and flipped the hood over his head. He'd stowed his quiver in his weapons bag, not wanting to draw undue attention.

It had been an interesting trick, getting out of the cargo hold while they were unloading luggage. He'd managed though, and had skirted airport security to make it off the tarmac without having to go through customs. He'd needed cash and had stopped at the first ATM he'd come across, withdrawing from his rainy day bank account that he hadn't touched in ten long years.

He shouldered his gear now and stepped out of the cover of the store front he was standing in and into the driving rain.

* * *

"He's got a sixteen hour head start on us," Bruce mused as they sat in Tony's private jet and waited to take off.

"We'll find him," Steve assured.

"And what?" Tony challenged, "Stop him?"

"We have to try."

"We won't be able to. If they really killed her, if she's gone, nothing we say will matter," Tony explained seriously. He glanced out the window of the jet at Pepper, standing by the car. She'd wanted to come, but he wasn't putting her in that kind of danger.

"He'll kill them anybody he gets his hands on," Steve shook his head.

"Maybe they deserve it," Tony shot back.

"He'll make sure he goes down with them," Bruce interjected.

"That's what we're going to try and prevent," Tony sighed. "Whether he likes it or not." He wouldn't lose his friend. Not after everything.

They were silent for a several moments as the jet taxied onto the runway.

"I can't believe this is happening." Steve shook his head.

Nobody had anything to say.

Tony watched Pepper out the window until she was out of sight. Suddenly glad that she wasn't a hero, wasn't a fighter. Wasn't in the constant danger the rest of them were. He didn't know what he'd do if she were ever taken from him. He wiped a hand over his face and thought of Clint. Somewhere over the past six or seven months since South Africa, the man had become his closest friend. He'd never known anyone but Pepper who could put up with him like Clint did. The man, literally, had the patience of a saint and a quick witted sarcasm that kept even Tony on his toes. They had to be in time to save him. They had to.

Thor stared pensively at his hammer in his lap, thinking of Jane and what he would do if faced with the same situation Clint Barton found himself in. Would he be able to survive that loss? He didn't think so. He didn't think he'd be able to do anything other than what Clint Barton was doing. Avenger her. With Jane gone from this realm, would he be able to find it in himself to stay with this team of heroes? He didn't think he would. He clenched his hand around his hammer, his heart aching for the noble archer and the pain he was facing. He hoped they were swift enough to save him from that pain. To save him from the death that Clint Barton would surely be seeking.

Steve stared out the window, thinking of Peggy. Thinking of his own love lost and the pain that followed him because of it. He'd found the strength to go on, though. He just needed to help Clint find that strength too. Somehow. But even he knew that the short time he'd had with Peggy was not in the same realm as what Clint and Natasha had together. He had loved Peggy and he believed that in the end she had loved him too. Clint and Natasha were  _part_  of each other. You couldn't think of one without thinking of the other. They belonged  _together_. Steve knew, without a doubt, that Clint would want to be with her, even in death.

Bruce thought of Clint, of the overwhelming pain he must be feeling. Of the darkness that had to have taken over him when hope slipped away. He was no stranger to that darkness. He'd lived in it for years. And then he'd been brought into the Avengers and he'd met the finest group of men and women he could ever hope to meet. He'd met Clint Barton, who had in one way or another endeared himself to each of them. Even to the Hulk inside of Bruce who was raging now, fighting to break free and rush to aid the archer he had protected so fiercely for the last year. Bruce soothed the beast as best he could. He assured him they were going. They were trying to get to Clint. As the raging monster quieted, Bruce thought of Betty. Of how he left her so he would never hurt her or have to lose her. He protected himself from that pain because he knew he'd never be able to survive it.

He didn't know how they could expect Clint to either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 4
> 
> Now before everybody starts wanting to lynch me in the streets...you find out the truth about if she's alive or dead in the next chapter
> 
> Clint is in London and hot on the trail of the killers and the team is, not quite hot, but on his trail.
> 
> Here's your preview
> 
> Clint pushed his hand into her bag and froze. He pulled out a pair of his boxers.
> 
> His god damned boxers that she stole all the time.
> 
> His god damned boxers that she'd never steal again.
> 
> His hard fought composure collapsed and he lost it.
> 
> He grabbed the bag and threw it across the room. The edge of the cot was suddenly in his hands and it was flipping over into the middle of the room. The kitchen table quickly followed it and then the contents of the fridge. Then the fridge itself was upended and sent crashing onto the small kitchen floor.


	5. I'm Falling Apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> thanks to those who commented! :)
> 
> Enjoy chapter 5!

_Beware the fury of a patient man._

**_John Dryden_ **

* * *

He and Natasha had both traveled a lot. Both with SHIELD and before. Not long after Vietnam, when Fury had split them up, they started putting together their own safe houses. Whenever one of them went to a new city, they spent at least a little time scoping out locations. Once they decided on a place, they bought it and added to it every time they were in the city.

Their London safe house had been in place for almost three years. They had others in Madrid, Munich, Rome, Moscow, Berlin, Tokyo, Brasília, Buenos Aires, Beijing, and several other major cities around the world. The houses were their back up plan. If anything ever went wrong and they couldn't go back to the SHIELD safe house, they had a safe place to go. A place no one knew about but them and Phil.

He stood in the rain in front of the old building. They owned the whole building, but it was the top floor that he focused on, the one he and Natasha had set up as their own. Part of him couldn't help but be hopeful. If Fury was wrong. If she'd made it out somehow. This is where she'd be.

With a sigh, he moved to the door and typed in the security code on the keypad they'd installed. The keypad flashed green and the heavy duty lock on the door slid open. Clint cast one paranoid look over his shoulder and pushed into the building. He closed the door behind him and typed in a code on a second keypad. It flashed red and the door lock slid back into place.

Clint looked around as he pushed his hood back off his head. It had done little to protect him from the pouring rain, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He searched the first floor for  _any_  sign that she'd been here. There was none.

He didn't let go of his hope yet, though, he moved to the industrial elevator and stepped inside, pulling the grating closed and tapping the button to take him to the top floor. He stared at the floor as he rose, refusing to look up until the elevator came to a stop.

He took a deep breath, trying not to let his hope build as he reached for the grating. He pushed it up and looked out into the large flat.

It was empty. The floor was dark; the metal shutters of the windows were pulled down. The lights were off and a fine layer of dust covered everything.

The fight drained out of him right along with the hope. He let his bags slide off his shoulders and to the ground. He looked around the flat again, his eyes settling on the old, kind of small, ugly, but very comfortable couch on the wall. They'd been sent to London together  _once_ , around two years ago. They'd moved that couch in together.

* * *

" _Ow,"_   _Clint grunted as he slammed into the back wall of the elevator and the couch rocked heavily against his chest._

_Natasha's green eyes suddenly peeked over the top of the cushions. He could tell she was smiling without seeing any more than her eyes._

" _Sorry," she apologized. "I didn't know you were so close to the back."_

" _Uh-huh," Clint grunted in disbelief, but couldn't stop the smile that quirked his lips. "Let's turn it on its end. This elevator is tall enough."_

" _Okay," she agreed._

_Her eyes disappeared back down behind the cushions. Clint shifted out from behind the couch and lowered his end to the ground._

" _Ready?" she asked._

" _Go for it." Clint guided the couch upright as Natasha pushed it._

_He let out a deep breath once it was standing on its own. Natasha leaned around it, her long curly red hair hung from her shoulder loosely._

" _You_ _ **had**_ _to have_ _ **this**_ _couch," he laughed. "It's old and it's heavy."_

" _It's perfect," she argued, sliding around it and pulling the grating down._

" _It's ugly. What color do you even call this?"_

" _It's_ _ **comfortable,**_ _" Natasha reminded, reaching to wipe away a smudge of dirt on his forehead._

" _If you say so. How much did you pay that guy to hold it last time you were here?"_

" _Probably too much," she admitted. "But it was perfect."_

" _So you said," he smiled. The elevator came to a stop and Natasha pulled the grate open._

_Clint slid by her and pulled the top end of the couch into his arms._

" _Where do you want it?" he asked as she lifted the lower side._

" _Over by the window."_

_They carried the old, heavy, ugly couch to the window and rested it against the wall next to it. They both stepped back and rounded the couch, looking at it in its new home. Natasha cocked her head to the side and Clint glanced at her._

" _You want to move it, don't you?"_

" _Just over to that wall." She pointed at the wall to their left._

" _Your wish, milady," he mocked, moving to one end of the couch._

" _Call me that again and I'll end you," she threatened. Clint smirked and they lifted. It only took a few minutes to move it. And again they stepped around to analyze the new location._

_Natasha nodded, satisfied and pulled Clint onto the couch to sit. She pulled his arm around her and leaned against his chest._

" _What do you think?" she asked, running her hand along the unidentified greenish, brownish, bluish fabric. Clint turned his face into her hair, inhaling the familiar scent of vanilla, sweat, and gunpowder._

" _It's perfect."_

* * *

Clint ran his hand along the ugly greenish, brownish, bluish fabric that they had never found the time or inclination to replace. They'd made a few more  _interesting_  memories on this couch that night. He sighed deeply and turned away, dragging his weapons bag up from the floor and dropping it on the rickety kitchen table he'd been tasked to fix after she decided it had  _character_.

* * *

" _This thing is a piece of junk," Clint commented into his cell phone, set on speaker and resting on the table._

" _ **It's an antique,"**_ _Natasha defended. He heard her say something in Mandarin. She was ordering her dinner. He glanced at his watch. He guessed it_ _ **was**_ _getting about dinner time there. It was lunch time here. His stomach grumbled at the realization._

" _It's tilted."_

" _ **It has character,"**_ _she replied easily._ _ **"You can fix it, Clint, I know you can."**_

" _That's irrelevant," Clint laughed. "You couldn't pick an already working table?"_

" _ **Do I even need to bring up the refrigerator you got for Tokyo?"**_

_Clint winced. That hadn't been his best purchase._

" _Now you're just playing dirty."_

" _ **Why is that you sound surprised?"**_

_Clint shook his head and dropped to a crouch to inspect Natasha's table. He grudgingly admitted he could fix it fairly easily._

" _I'll fix your table," he promised._

" _ **I know."**_

_Clint rolled his eyes. He thought the amount of arrogant confidence in her tone was completely unwarranted._

* * *

He checked his weapons over. His bag was waterproof, so the rain hadn't done any damage. He cleared his throat, purposefully ignoring anything else in the room that could spur any memories. He pulled out his laptop and fished the flash drive out of his pocket. While he waited for it to boot up, he went to the fridge.

He pulled it open and froze. Natasha must have dropped by before her op and had apparently stocked the fridge. There were a dozen blue Gatorades resting on the bottom shelf. That in itself wasn't what froze every muscle in his body. It was the note taped to the nearest bottle.

It simple and scribbled hurriedly.

_See you soon, мой сокол._

_-Tasha_

It wasn't something they did often. Leave notes. This would mark the fourth since they'd known each other. She'd probably written it on a whim on her way out the door, a small token for the next time he was in the city.

It nearly did him in.

Instead, he steeled himself and closed the fridge, suddenly not thirsty. He moved back to the table and saw the computer booted up and the flash drive file open on the screen. He spent the next hour pouring over all the information Fury had given him, committing it all to memory. He spent longer than necessary staring at Conrad Baskov's face, anger boiling inside him.

The last thing on the flash drive was a recording. He clicked it open and waited, not sure what it was. He could only stare at the screen blankly when her voice came across he speakers. Then he listened like his entire being depended on it. When the horrifying shock of his first listen wore off, he listened again, and again, and again. He listened to it a dozen times, hoping and straining each time to hear something different. To hear anything to tell him she was still alive.

Overcome with a mixture of rage and frustration, he slammed the laptop closed and reached for his weapons. He knew what SHIELD safe house she'd been using now. That was the next step to figuring out what had gone wrong.

He slipped his quiver onto his back. He'd be traveling by rooftop from here and wasn't worried about being spotted with the odd weapon. He slid one of his desert eagles into his thigh holster and made sure his knives were secure in their sheaths. Then he pulled his hood on and headed for the metal door across the room.

He pushed pulled it open and walked purposefully out into the now lightly sprinkling rain.

* * *

He watched the safe house for twenty minutes and determined that it didn't seem to have been compromised. He slipped onto the roof and pressed his hand against the palm scanner. It flashed green and the roof door popped open. Clint drew his side arm, entering the small flat slowly. He may not have seen anyone come or go, but you could never be too careful.

He led with the gun and cleared the small one room apartment quickly.

It was empty, as he'd expected. With a sigh, he holstered his gun and glanced around. Natasha was, by nature, a very neat person. She didn't spread her stuff around in a half hazard fashion, not even in her own room. The safe house was no different. She had one small corner that her things were resting in.

There was a half empty glass of water next to the sink and a plate with a quarter of a sandwich left on it. He pulled open the fridge, seeing a takeout box from their favorite place in the city. He closed the fridge with a slam and looked around. All that was left was her stuff in the corner with her cot.

He moved over to it, seeing the mission file open on the cot. Her bag was sitting next to it, unzipped and the contents folded neatly inside. Her weapons bag was half under the cot, several weapons inside it.

Clint pushed his hand into her bag and froze. He pulled out a pair of his boxers.

 _His_  god damned boxers that she stole all the time.

 _His_  god damned boxers that she'd never steal again.

He hard fought composure collapsed and he lost it.

He grabbed the bag and threw it across the room. The edge of the cot was suddenly in his hands and it was flipping over into the middle of the room. The kitchen table quickly followed it and then the contents of the fridge. Then the fridge itself was upended and sent crashing onto the small kitchen floor.

* * *

When he collapsed against the wall ten minutes later, his chest was heaving. He looked around at the destruction he'd caused. The entire safe house was trashed. There were holes in the walls and the blood on his split knuckles told him he'd caused them. He'd kicked at the radiator until it broke away from the wall. The mirror in the bathroom was shattered and the sink was hanging half off the wall.

Clint curled his hands into his hair, digging his fingers into his scalp and then ran them over his face roughly. He drew his hands back when he felt a telling wetness on his face. With stubborn refusal to acknowledge it, he wiped the rest of it away. He pushed himself slowly to his feet and retrieved her bag, carefully packing her things back into it. His hands shook as he grabbed her weapons bag and then picked up the file he'd thrown across the room at some point.

Then he walked out of the safe house without a backwards glance.

* * *

Clint studied the face of Conrad Baskov for the second time. He studied it until he knew the man's face better than his own mother would. Then he studied the townhouse. Natasha had made sketches detailing what she believed was the interior layout. He studied those too.

His plan was simple. Knock on the front door and kill as many of the bastards as he could on his way to Baskov. Once he took him out, nothing else mattered. He couldn't make himself care about planning beyond that point.

It had all been bullshit. Everything he'd told Tony in South Africa.

_You can't grieve a future you didn't expect to get anyway._

That's what he'd said. But he'd been wrong. He might not have actively planned a future with her, but he'd counted on it, deep in his soul. He'd believed she'd always come back. You didn't survive what she'd survived without being the  _best_. And the best always got their job done and came back. And now he  _ached_  for the future that had been stolen from them.

He had been right when he'd told Tony he wouldn't regret anything, though. He didn't regret one second of his time with her. Even the moments that were hazed by pain. It had all been worth it. Every second, of every day had been worth it.

He'd told Tony they both accepted that this might happen. But he'd always thought it'd be him that didn't come back. He hadn't been prepared for it to be her. In his head he'd known it could happen one day, but he hadn't been ready. He couldn't ever have been ready. Because she was Natasha Romanoff, formerly Natalia Romanova. She was the Black Widow. She was untouchable.

Clint shoved away his laptop and stood.

She was  _his_  and Conrad Baskov had taken her. It was time to let that man know exactly what he'd done.

* * *

When the group of men in the living room heard the knock at the door, it was Alex that got up to answer it. He was still laughing at something Daniel had said when reached the door.

"Who is it?" he asked in carefully practiced English.

His only response was another knock. Curious, he unlatched the deadbolt , but not the chain. He pulled the door open a fraction, his hand gripping the gun on his hip. His eyes widened a moment before the arrow he was staring down headed towards his face.

The rest of the group jumped up when Alex suddenly fell back with a black arrow protruding from his eye. They all raised their side arms as the front door suddenly burst open under the force of what sounded like a kick. They opened fire on the door.

They fired until their bullets ran out and the door was hanging on one hinge. There was a heavy silence and for a moment nobody moved. Daniel stepped forward, reaching for a fresh magazine on his belt. He never had a chance to load it.

A lithe figure dressed in black with a hood pulled over its head suddenly rolled into the room, bringing a bow and arrow up to bare as he came to his knees. He'd fired three arrows before the men realized what had happened. They scrambled to put fresh magazines into their guns and he killed two more before charging at them with a wicked looking serrated knife in one hand and his bow in the other.

A man named Dmitri backed up to the wall, watching the men around him fall under this man's blade. Then Dmitri was the last one left. The man backed him up to the wall with the knife at this throat. Terrifyingly dark blue-gray eyes glared at him from the shadow of the hood.

"Baskov. Where is he?" The man demanded.

Dmitri didn't respond at first.

"Where is he?!" the man repeated forcefully, pressing the knife harder against Dmitri's throat.

"Upstairs." Dmitri pointed with a shaking hand. The last thing he saw was those dark stormy eyes before there was a sharp pain against his throat and then nothing.

* * *

Clint moved to the stairs, striding up them quickly. He nocked an arrow as he rounded the first corner and narrowed his eyes when he found the hallway empty. He moved down to the first door and kicked it open. It was empty. He was headed to the next door when a sound at the other end of the hallway grabbed his attention. A partially opened door.

He moved towards it and pushed it open.

Conrad Baskov was sitting there with a half a dozen men on either side of him, looking for all the world like he was the most relaxed he'd ever been in his life. Clint sent an arrow right at his heart. To his everlasting annoyance, one of his men dove in front of him, taking the arrow for him. Clint killed two more of them before they even got their guns raised.

Baskov put his hand up to stop his men from firing. Clint fired two more arrows before thick arms wrapped around him from behind. He was lifted bodily off the ground and thrown with what he assumed bore a remarkable resemblance to a rag doll across the room. His bow went clattering out of his hand and Clint's vision whited out as his temple slammed into the leg of a desk.

Strong hands wrapped around the front of his shirt and Clint's brain snapped into awareness. He reacted instinctively, curling his body and wrapping his legs over the arms holding him. He pressed his legs down, forcing the hands holding him to either release or risk injury. They released and he brought his boots together, sending them hard into the man's chest.

He was on his feet in a second, watching a surprisingly large number of men move towards him. He had no idea where they had all come from. He caught sight of Baskov smiling at him through the throng of bodies. He met the man's eyes and promised without words that he was coming for him.

Then Clint unsheathed both his knives and watched Baskov's men approach.

Later, he would credit the unbridled rage that had taken over him as well as the fact that for the first time in his life, he didn't care if he came out of this alive. But Clint fought like a man possessed. He fought like he had only once before. When he had been fighting to save Natasha's life instead of avenge it.

There were twenty men between him and Boskov.

Tactically, the room was a nightmare. It was large and open, forcing him to put his back against the wall to make sure no one got behind him. He watched the first line of men form a semi-circle around him and smiled. Several of them looked unnerved at his wide, predatory grin. The rest looked too hardened to ever be unnerved by anything.

It made him smile wider. He spun his two knives and waited until they made the first move, just like he'd been taught. A burly man came at him from the right, swinging a beefy fist towards his head. Clint ducked and stabbed Coulson's knife up into what he approximated was the man's fifth and sixth left ribs. The man dropped heavily, his heart punctured.

It served as the starting bell for the rest of the group and they descended.

A man charged from the left and Clint slashed at his throat with his knife while stabbing a man to his right in the side of the neck. He slammed a boot into the chest of a man coming at him from the front, pushing him back even as he pulled his right knife free. He jumped, turning his body and delivering a front kick to the man he'd just stabbed and a back kick to the man who's throat he'd slit, sending both bodies tumbling back into the men behind them.

He crossed his arms as he landed. A moment later, a man charging towards his front stepped right into the crossing blades as he uncrossed his arms sharply. He snapped up a high kick into a jaw to his left and stabbed straight into a throat to his right. He lost Phil's knife to a crowbar against his wrist. My some miracle, none of his bones broke, but the knife went skittering across the floor.

He ducked the swinging crowbar, hearing it crack into the drywall of the wall behind him. He rose and wrapped his arm over the crowbar. He jumped, snapping a spin kick into someone's jaw and consequently twisting the crowbar out of the owner's grip. He gripped the curved end and swung it into the nearest man's temple, dropping him with what was probably a fractured skull. A boot knocked the crowbar from his grip and a skillful block managed to knock Natasha's knife away.

Weaponless, he started using his hands and feet to kill instead. He snapped necks with his hands, broke backs with his favorite scissor move, caused brain damage with powerful kicks, and crushed sternums with well placed palms.

In the end, he'd killed fifteen of them by the time they brought him down.

One of the remaining five men got a skillful hit to the already bleeding wound on his temple. It whited out his vision for barely a moment, but it was enough. His feet were kicked out from under him and suddenly he was on his back. A bad place to be when you're outnumbered. He pushed to his hands and knees, only to have a boot slam into his ribs, lifting him up briefly before sending him back onto his back. He elbowed the man over his head in the knee, sending the joint bending the wrong way. The man gasped and stumbled back. Clint rolled into a backwards somersault to his feet. He was met with a boot to the chest that sent him slamming into the wall and further cracking the drywall. A kick sent pain slicing through his knee and he stumbled to the left. The crowbar was in his peripheral vision for barely a moment before it cracked against shoulder. The force of the blow turned his body opening up his back to take the next hit. That one brought him to his knees. A fist crashed into his temple and he wavered before falling to the side and barely catching himself on his hands, a shrill ringing filling his ears. He heard the whistle of the crowbar in the air a moment before it hit his back again, across the shoulder blades. It drove him to the ground.

A boot hit his temple and he lost time.

A hard slap brought him back to reality. He blinked, his vision swimming dizzyingly. He felt the cool metal of handcuffs restraining his hands behind his back and he was being held on his knees by a strong hand on his shoulder. He blinked again and the world came into focus.

Baskov was standing casually in front of him, looking extremely pleased with himself.

"Clint Barton," Baskov greeted blandly.

"Conrad Baskov," Clint replied in the same tone.

"We've been expecting you."

"Didn't know I was so popular," Clint slurred with a cocky grin. Inwardly, his mind raced at the implications of what that meant. Had Natasha been killed just to draw him out? The thought made him sick.

"Oh yes, Mr. Barton. Or can I call you Hawkeye?"

"Depends," Clint smiled, a gruesome sight with the blood covering his face, "can I call you asshole?"

He was expecting the punch from the man on his left and smiled even as his head snapped to the side.

"I had my doubts if her death would draw you out, but it seems they were unfounded."

"It drew me out alright," Clint agreed, shifting his weight very subtly. "And brought me right to your doorstep." Baskov smiled arrogantly. "And made it  _really_  easy for me to kill you."

Baskov's smile faltered at the matter of fact confidence in Clint's tone. It bolstered quickly though as he took in the Hawk, bound and on his knees.

"You hardly look as if you're going to be killing anyone, Mr. Barton," Baskov mocked. His eyes narrowed when Clint smiled again.

The next few things happened so quickly, Baskov was sure if he'd blinked he would have missed it. One moment, Barton was subdued and on his knees. The next, he dropping to his side and kicking in the knee of the man holding him. He was up in a second and jumping, bringing his bound hands under his legs from the back. He was on the man he'd kicked in a breath, snapping his neck. He took one step towards Baskov before a gun cocking behind him froze him in his steps.

Her heard footsteps and then the cold muzzle of the gun was against the back of his head. He almost took it, but suddenly he was flanked on both sides by two of the remaining men.

"Why don't you take Mr. Barton down to the basement and give him a chance to reign in his temper," Baskov suggested to the man holding the gun. Clint was suddenly yanked backwards by a grip on his bicep and forced towards the door.

* * *

The only reason he didn't fall down the stairs when he was pushed from behind was because he had arguably perfect balance. He stumbled only briefly before righting himself and sending a sneering glare over his shoulder. The basement consisted of a short hallway with two metal doors on the left side and a fairly open surveillance area on the right side. His eyes had just found the screens with what looked like camera feeds when he was pushed forcefully against the wall next to the first door.

His head was held against the wall by a firm hand as the door was unlocked. Then he was spun sharply around and slammed back against the wall. His hands were uncuffed and he glanced around at the four guns pointed at him.

"You boys look a little nervous." Clint smiled his most predatory smile.

"Back into the room," the man that had uncuffed him ordered, shoving Clint towards the open door.

"You boss knows who I am and he knows what I'm capable of," Clint pointed out, smile still in place. "Notice he kept well away from the fight while I killed all of your friends."

"Quiet!" The man snapped, delivering a swift left cross into Clint's cheek. He stumbled back, wavered when his vision titled, and then fell to the ground. "Shut the door," the man demanded.

"I'll see you soon!" Clint promised with a laugh. He'd burn this whole place to the ground with himself inside it if he had to.

The smile fell when he heard them move away. He was mentally preparing himself to move when a sound drew his attention to the air vent on the left edge of the ceiling. It was a voice. A voice he'd know anywhere.

"Clint?"

And it was there, on a cold stone floor with the smell of his own blood in the air, that Clint Barton's world started turning again.

"Natasha?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter Five
> 
> See! I'm not evil! I could never really kill off Natasha :D Everyone take a collective sigh of relief! She's alive!
> 
> Here's your preview! The next chapter will jump back in time and we will see what our lovely Black Widow has been up to, now that we know she's alive:
> 
> Her head hurt and she could feel the skin of her cheek was stiff with dried blood. She thought back, trying to work out what the hell had happened. She'd breached the house. Killed one man. Then they'd fired blanks, creating the sound of numerous gunshots but not actually harming her. She'd turned and gotten hit with something hard.
> 
> She frowned as she remembered them talking about her like she was dead.


	6. I'm Barely Breathing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> I'm going out of town this weekend so I'm giving you today and tomorrow's chapters now :) Enjoy!
> 
> As always, any Russian translations are thanks to Rain in the Dark :)

_Justice is revenge._

**_Saad Hariri_ **

* * *

_July 31, 2013-early afternoon- approximately 55 hours ago_

* * *

Natasha pushed open the grating on their London safe house, balancing her grocery bag on her hip. She flipped on the light and moved straight for the kitchen. She couldn't stay long. She needed to get started on her surveillance immediately. But every time they were in a city where they had a safe house, they had to stock at least one thing.

She'd chosen to stock up on Gatorades and waters. Clint loved his Gatorade and she loved water. She pulled open the fridge and set the bag on the ground in front of it. She pulled out two six packs of blue Gatorade and pushed them onto the bottom shelf. She slid her waters onto the shelf above and closed the fridge.

She started to turn away but paused. Maybe it was because today was their seven year anniversary, but something made her rip off a corner of the paper grocery bag and dig a pen out of the drawer next to the fridge. She scribbled a quick note, something he wouldn't get until next time he was in the country, and dug around in the same drawer until she found tape. She pulled the fridge open again and taped the hastily scribbled note onto the nearest Gatorade.

She took a moment to take in the rest of the flat. She couldn't help but smile at the sight of the bluish, greenish, brownish couch against the wall. Clint had hated it the moment he'd seen it, but it had been so comfortable she had loved it instantly. He hadn't been there the first time she saw it and she'd paid the owner entirely too much to hold it until she could come back for it. She figured she could afford it though, the money she'd made from her contract days was more than enough to help she and Clint set up their houses. She'd only taken contracts on her own for about nine months after leaving the Black Widow Program, but when you already had the reputation of the Black Widow, the contracts came fast and the prices were high. She'd made a lot of money very quickly and now she and Clint had found a good use for it.

And if they day ever came where they had to leave it all behind, they had his untouched account from  _his_  contract days to depend on.

Clint had happened to be with her the next time she was in the country. It had taken everything she had not to laugh at the look of disgust on his face when he'd seen it. He had complained the whole way back to their safe house and on the trip up the elevator. But he'd sat on it with her and told her it was perfect, even though he hated it.

She was smiling as she moved back into the elevator and pulled down the grating.

* * *

_July 31, 2013- Evening- approximately 50 hours ago_

* * *

Natasha put her hand on the palm scanner and waited for it to flash green. The door to her SHIELD safe house popped open and she made her way inside. She closed it firmly behind her and moved over to the kitchen, dropping her take out on the table.

Then she walked to her cot. She changed quickly, tossing her black uniform across the cot and pulling on a pair of Clint's boxers and an old SHIELD training t-shirt with the name 'Barton' printed across the shoulders that she'd stolen from him long ago.

She picked up her mission file and dug her sketch pad out of her bag. She sat at the table with a sigh, unpacking her meal and getting to work on her sketches. She spent well over an hour creating a layout of the townhouse based on window positions, blacked out or not windows still indicated a room, and information she'd gotten from observing the neighboring townhouses that looked to be about the same style.

As she finished her sketch, she glanced at her food. There was still enough left for an entire other person. She sighed, closing the box and resolving to finish it tomorrow before she left. She slid the take out box into the fridge and filled a glass with water, moving back to the table.

She stared at her sketch book for a moment, her mind on other things. Their London safe house for instance. Thinking of their safe house made her think of Clint. She glanced at her watch. It was seven years ago in about three hours that he stood over her in her Paris safe house and pointed an arrow at her heart. She smiled and moved to her bag, fishing out her satellite phone. It was supposed to be for mission relevant use only, but what were they going to do? Fire her?

She dialed his cell number and waited. It rang twice before he answered it.

" _Barton."_

She smiled just hearing his voice.

"Hey," she greeted, dropping down onto her cot and relaxing back against the wall.

" _Hey!"_ she could hear the smile in his voice.  _"How's the mission going?"_

"On schedule. I'm making my play tomorrow and I should be on the first flight home the next morning."

" _Sounds good."_

"What have you been up to?"

" _Bothering Tony."_

"Making good use of your time I see."

" _Always,"_ he sighed.  _"Pepper wants me to teach her and Tony how to cook tomorrow."_

She heard him sit on what she assumed was one of their beds.

"That ought to be interesting." She found herself smiling.

" _Yeah, we'll see."_ He laughed.  _"If the tower is burned to the ground when you get back, you'll know why."_

She laughed lightly and then they were silent for a moment, just listening to each other breathe.

" _Happy seven years, Natasha."_

She smiled. Her name, as always, was like a whispered prayer on his lips. She loved hearing it, loved that he reserved it now for special moments, calling her Tasha or Nat in everyday conversation.

"Happy seven years, Clint," she replied. She ached for him suddenly. To see his beautiful blue grey eyes. To feel his battle roughened hands on her skin. To feel the rough contours of his many scars under her fingers. To be wrapped up in his strong arms with such a feeling of security that sleep came easily in a way it never did any other time.

" _I miss you,"_  he stated quietly, as if reading her mind.

"I miss you too," she sighed. "I'll be back soon though."

" _I know. And then I'm taking over your closet."_

"Ha! I'll clear out a two by two corner for you."

" _You steal my stuff anyway, half my clothes are already in your closet."_

"Irrelevant."

He laughed and she smiled.

" _You should get back to prepping. I'll see you day after tomorrow."_

"Try not to drive Tony completely crazy."

" _No promises. Береги себя, мой огненный паук." (_ _Be safe, my fiery spider.)_ _  
_

"Навечно," _(Always)_  she promised. Listening to the line go dead. She tossed the phone down and moved back to her mission intel. She spent the next several hours studying and planning. She slept for five hours and then planned some more. At lunch time she made herself a sandwich and refilled her water glass. She was full after three quarters of the sandwich and left it on its plate on the counter, intending to either finish it or throw it away later. She left her half full glass of water next to it and grabbed her gear. A few hours of surveillance and she could make her move.

* * *

" _Breaching the window now,"_ she murmured lowly, barely loud enough for her comm. to pick up. She slid the window open and waited a moment, nothing inside moved. She slid through the opening and landed lightly on the floor. She moved silently. From what she'd put together about the interior, the downstairs was just a living room and a kitchen.

Baskov should be upstairs somewhere.

She moved quietly to the staircase and scaled it silently. She caught a man coming around the corner by surprise.

"Hey!" He didn't shout, thankfully, just stated it in surprise.

She was on him in one stride and snapping his neck. She lowered him quietly the ground and stepped onto the landing.

"One down," she whispered, moving towards the door at the nearest end of the hallway. It opened suddenly as she came to stand in front of it and gunfire erupted. She tensed, waiting for the burn of bullets tearing into her, but it didn't come. She blinked.  _Blanks_. She opened her mouth to say something to SHIELD, turning as she sensed a presence behind her. She turned right into a swinging crowbar. It hit her temple with a crack, sending her sprawling to the floor.

As she gathered her senses she felt someone dig her comm. out of her ear.

"Get rid of the body. Where no one can find it."

She looked up to see Conrad Baskov standing over her, her comm. in his hand. Then he placed it on the ground and crushed it with his boot. She glared at him and made to rise, but two sharp pains bit into her back and then electricity surged through her. All she felt for a moment was pain and then darkness greeted her.

* * *

She woke in a windowless, grey walled room. There was a single metal door and a small vent in the right edge of the ceiling. She took a moment to take stock.

Her head hurt and she could feel the skin of her cheek was stiff with dried blood. She thought back, trying to work out what _the hell_  had happened. She'd breached the house. Killed one man. Then they'd fired blanks, creating the sound of numerous gunshots but not actually harming her. She'd turned and gotten hit with something hard.

She frowned as she remembered them talking about her like she was dead.

_Dead._

Her frown deepened. Why would they act as if she were dead, but  _not_  actually kill her. Maybe to keep SHIELD from coming for her. Protocol might stop them, but it had never and would never stop Clint.

Her thoughts screeched to a halt.

_Clint!_

That was it. Creating the illusion of her death would bring Clint crashing in hell bent on destruction. But why fake her death? Surely if they knew he would come for vengeance, he would come to save her as well.

Then she realized.

If Clint believed she was dead, truly believed it, he wouldn't worry about tactics. He wouldn't take time to plan. He'd just attack and kill as many as he could before they took him out. Because as much as she wished it weren't true, Clint could no more survive without her than she ever could without him.

This was all about Clint.

And she had no way of warning him.

* * *

They never visited her. Food was slid in through a small slot on the door. They never asked her questions. They never demanded information. It just solidified the horrifying realization that Clint was their target, not her.

She spent the time racking her brain, going through every mission Clint had ever been on that would bring him across Conrad Baskov's path. Nothing came to her. Baskov was a contract killer. He traveled more than he stayed in one place. There was a small possibility that SHIELD had sent Clint for someone Baskov had taken a contract on. But a professional like that Russian wouldn't trouble himself with revenge this elaborate over something so inconsequential.

No matter what way she looked at it, none of this made any sense.

She paced a lot, ran through exercises to keep her mind and body sharp. She searched ever inch of her prison looking for a weak point she could use to escape. There were none. Baskov had obviously known who he'd be keeping captive in here. Even the hinges for the door were on the outside of the room. She spent a few useless moments berating herself for getting captured, for not even getting a hit of her own in. The ache of her head and the stinging of the two punctures from the taser gun reminded her they hadn't given her much of a chance.

Mostly she waited. Waited for the sounds of the inevitable battle that would take place when Clint arrived to bring his own special version of death and destruction. She waited and she prayed that he wouldn't walk into the trap like she had. That he wouldn't be so lost in his grief and anger that he wouldn't even care if it  _was_  a trap.

She would do anything to be able to tell him she was alive.

She hoped that they were keeping her that way because they intended to keep  _him_  alive. It was the only reason she could think of that she hadn't just been killed when she had the chance. What use was she if they were going to kill him anyway?

That was another thing she troubled over. How had they known she was coming? There were only two explanations she could hold any confidence in. One, there was a mole in SHIELD. A terrifying thought, but unlikely. Or two, Baskov had intentionally let himself be seen so that someone would be sent after him. And for a man of his considerable skill, he had to have known it would be her. He'd blacked out the windows and stayed inside to make sure it  _wasn't_  Clint. Which told her only one horrifying thing.

They were going to use her against him.

She could take anything they threw at her. She had been through more pain in her life at the hands of the Black Widow Program than anyone could ever put her through now. It wasn't her she was worried about. It was Clint. Because even though he would never give them whatever the hell it was they wanted just to protect her, it would kill him to have that weight put on him. It always did, every time they were put in this type of situation. Just like it killed her when the situations were reversed. Just because they could handle seeing each other hurt for interrogation purposes, didn't mean they could  _handle_  it.

They'd have to reveal their ruse to do any of that, though. And seeing her alive would put more fight in him than they could possibly be counting on. His unstoppable need to protect her was going to be their greatest advantage now. Because while he wouldn't give up information or do anything for these guys, he would fight like hell to get free. And he would succeed, because he didn't know how to  _not_ succeed when it came to her. They were still alive because he  _always_  succeeded and so did she when he was the one being used against her. Unfortunately that was the only advantage she could think of. It was a pretty damn big advantage though. Nobody had ever fought for her like Clint. He'd started the moment they met and hadn't ever stopped.

They would get out of this. Somehow. They always did.

* * *

She'd been doing a series of elaborate stretches when she heard it. A sudden barrage of gunfire from what sounded like somewhere above her.

_Clint._

He was here. He'd come just like she'd hoped and feared he would.

She moved to the door, straining to hear what was going on. When the gunfire died out, every muscle in her body tensed. She couldn't hear anything, either the fight was a quiet one or there were too many walls between her and the action. She didn't move from her spot though, straining every sense she had to try and get a feel for what was happening.

She didn't know how long she stood there before she finally heard feet on the stairs. There was a dull thud along the front wall somewhere to her right. She heard the sound of another door being unlocked and assumed there was a small room similar to hers on the other side of her right wall. There was another thud and a rattling of handcuffs. Then she heard a soft but intense rumbling voice that she would know anywhere. It was a little muted and she had to focus to understand the words through her metal door.

"You boys look a little nervous."

 _Clint._  He was mocking them. It was such a  _him_  thing to do. He never could stop himself from running his mouth. It was his way of taking some control over situations that were so far  _out_  of his control.

"Back into the room," a rough voice ordered him and she heard the sound of someone being shoved.

"You boss knows who I am and he knows what I'm capable of," she heard her archer taunt. "Notice he kept well away from the fight while I killed all of your friends."

Natasha's head snapped to the vent in the left edge of her ceiling. Clint's voice was coming through that vent so clearly he might as well have been standing next to her. She moved to it quickly.

"Quiet!" the man snapped. She heard flesh hit flesh, a stumbled step, silence, and then a thud as a body fell. "Shut the door," the man demanded.

"I'll see you soon!" Clint promised with a laugh that sounded a touch close to manic. She heard the door shut and lock and the men move away. She waited impatiently for them to get far enough away that they wouldn't hear her speak. She had to let Clint know she was here. She had to take that slightly hysterical and hopeless tone from his voice.

"Clint?" She was afraid to raise her voice too high, for fear that someone else would hear. There was a long silence and for a moment she thought he hadn't heard. Then he responded, speaking her name in a way that told her that her suspicions had been true. He'd thought she was dead and her name had never sounded more like the whispered prayer she loved so much.

"Natasha?"

There was so much devastating hope in his voice that her heart broke for him and she wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around him.

"I'm here," she assured, hearing emotion choking her own voice in a response to what she felt from him.

* * *

It took Clint several moments to process her confirmation. But the moment it filtered into his shell shocked brain, he was on his feet, pain from the beating he'd taken in the fight forgotten. He moved to stand directly under the vent, hands pressed against the wall, eyes pinned on the small rectangle of metal.

He didn't know he was mirroring exactly how Natasha was standing.

For several more moments he didn't know what to say. He had just gone from being on the very edge to being yanked back to solid ground. He was reeling.

"Clint?" Natasha called. His lack of response was concerning.

"I'm here," he parroted shakily. "I thought…" he couldn't continue. He couldn't say it out loud. Couldn't acknowledge what had been  _truth_  to him just 60 seconds ago.

"I know."

She rested her forehead against the wall. She wasn't a comforter by nature, but with Clint she didn't always have to be. Sometimes just meeting his eyes and assuring him silently that everything would be okay was enough. She couldn't even do that. She couldn't let him wrap his arms around her and assure himself that she was real. That his worst nightmare hadn't been realized. She couldn't imagine what he was feeling. She couldn't imagine believing he was taken from her forever.

"What the hell is going on?" he demanded, his voice wavering with barely controlled emotion.

"It was all a lie," she pointed out needlessly.

"What happened?" he asked more calmly. His mind was accepting that it was true, she was alive and in the room right next to him. He wished he could see her with his own eyes, wrap her in his arms and feel the warmth of her body.

"It was a set up," she explained. "I think Baskov let himself be seen on purpose to draw me out."

"The comm. recording," Clint cleared his throat, staving off the emotion that was trying to force its way back up, "it sounded like they were waiting for you and just opened fire."

"You heard that?" she demanded. She knew how the comm recording had to have sounded. There would have been no hope after hearing that.

"Yeah." He closed his eyes, remembering the recording. Remembering listening to it a dozen times hoping to hear something different.

"How? Only SHIELD should have…" she trailed off. Fury. "Fury gave it to you," she sighed.

"He gave me everything. He wanted me to finish the job."

Natasha nodded even though he couldn't see her.

"He knew you wouldn't stop until you killed him."

Fury had known Clint even longer than she had. The man knew how Clint operated. He had known Clint would avenge her or die trying. Hell, if Clint had known that it had been Loki that had killed Phil before the would-be-invader had been taken back to Asgard, she had no doubt Clint would have found a way to try and kill him.

But what Fury didn't know, couldn't have known, is that Clint wouldn't have planned on ever coming back from this. Because for as long as Fury had known about them, he had never truly understood.

"I'm still going to," Clint swore darkly.

Natasha frowned thoughtfully.

"Clint, this was a set up," she repeated. "This wasn't about me or they would have just killed me when they had the chance."

Clint frowned, processing what she was implying.

"Have you ever met Baskov before today?" she asked.

"No," he replied thoughtfully. "You think all of this was to draw me out?"

"Yes," she stated confidently. "And somehow they knew that if you thought I was dead, you'd be more vulnerable to a trap."

"I wasn't thinking about anything but killing that son of a bitch," Clint admitted. His focus had been tunneled on his one goal. He hadn't thought or cared about anything else.

"Something bigger is going on here," Natasha frowned. "Why would Baskov go to this much trouble to trap you and then not even kill you?"

"That's a good question." Clint shifted to sit gingerly against the wall directly below the vent. "Tell me exactly what happened."

"They fired blanks," Natasha sighed. She turned and slid down the wall to sit. "Somebody got me in the head with a something hard and they killed by comm before I could warn SHIELD. They tasered me and then stuck me in here. Nobody's even talked to me since."

Clint frowned thoughtfully.

Natasha was right. This was about him. Somehow Baskov had known that faking her death would bring him to their doorstep with a blind determination, which would be his weakness. Clint always weighed his options. He always saw the bigger picture. But this time, he hadn't. He'd charged ahead on his quest for revenge not even considering the implications or consequences. He rested his head back, distractedly wiping blood away from his eye as it dripped down his face.

"Maybe he wants something from me," he hedged.

"Maybe," she agreed. "That might explain why he kept me alive. To use against you."

Clint frowned deeply at that. Coulson had made sure they knew how to handle it if the other was being tortured as leverage. They'd had plenty of practice in it as well and neither of them had ever given up information. If that's what this was, they stood a chance at getting out of this. But seeing Natasha hurt, especially because of him, wasn't something he could ever get used to.

"What could Baskov want?" Clint wondered. "I may be high on the food chain for SHIELD, but I'm an operative. I only have vital details on my own missions and all of those are closed."

"Maybe they just want information on SHIELD."

"Then why target me? I'm arguably SHIELD's most highly trained asset, besides you. They have to know I'd be one of the hardest to break. And why this elaborate ruse?"

"I don't know," she sighed.

They fell silent, both leaning back against their walls.

Clint pulled his knees up to his chest, feeling the pull of abused and bruised muscles in his back and abdomen. His back pulsed with pain from the crowbar and his head pounded with what he was certain had to be a concussion. He ignored it all. With a sigh, he rested his elbows on his knees and dug his fingers into his hair.

She was alive.

A swell of emotion welled up in his chest again and he battered it down. The pure undiluted relief and joy he felt was standing in harsh contrast to the sharp, dark pain he'd been drowning in for the last two days. He was reeling from the plummet to the emotional low he'd been at ever since Fury had told him Natasha was dead and now the skyrocketing high upon discovering she was still alive. Less than half an hour ago, he'd thought she was gone forever. Now she was sitting a matter of inches away and he couldn't even see her. Couldn't hold her. Couldn't quite convince his heart that it might all turn out alright in the end. He turned his body, resting his bruised forehead against the wall and closing his eyes. He pictured her in his mind, every contour of her face, every shade of green in her eyes, every curl in her hair. He pressed his palm against the wall and pictured her. And somehow, everything seemed a little better.

Natasha could almost feel the emotion rolling off her partner in waves. Every fiber of her being wanted to comfort him. They'd been through a lot together, she and him. They'd seen tragedy, they'd flirted with death, they'd taken pain in every form, they'd bled together, they'd fought together, they'd mourned their closest friend together, but they'd never faced anything like this before. She turned, resting her unbruised temple against the wall and pressing her hand flat against the smooth surface of the grey paint, wishing she could make it better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 6
> 
> Now you know what happened from Natasha's end! I'm not done being mean to these two yet. I'm a cruel, cruel person I know...but be honest...you love it :D I know you're probably like "she's the black widow! How could she get taken so easily?"...you get cracked in the head with a crowbar and tasered and see if you can do anything about it lol... XD They knew EXACTLY who they'd be dealing with when they set this trap and they carried out their evil plan very effectively. Anyways...I'll stop rambling now :D
> 
> All will be revealed (kind of) next chapter! Though I'm sure a few faithful readers have guessed what's coming :D
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Here's your preview:
> 
> Baskov smiled as if he knew something Clint didn't.
> 
> Clint's eyes narrowed at another set of footsteps approaching from behind.
> 
> "You have it all wrong, Hawkeye," Baskov explained casually, "You see, this was never about you and I."
> 
> "It was about me."
> 
> Clint couldn't help the sudden widening of his eyes as the deeply accented voice that rose from behind him. He knew that voice.


	7. With A Broken Heart That's Still Beating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Enjoy!

_An eye for an eye would make the whole world blind._

**_Mahatma Gandhi_ **

* * *

"This is the address for the SHIELD safe house Natasha would have been using," Tony announced. The four men stared at the hand print reader next to the door and frowned.

"How did you find this address again?" Bruce asked warily.

"I hacked SHIELD. This is the only safe house they have active in the city right now." Tony shrugged.  _Honestly_ , SHIELD needed to install new firewalls if they wanted him to stop doing that.

"How do we gain entry?" Thor asked, shifting his grip on his hammer. He seriously considered just hitting the door as hard as he could.

"It might open for any SHIELD agent." Tony glanced at Steve. "Why don't you give it a shot, Stars and Stripes?"

Steve immediately raised his hand and flattened it against the palm reader. They all stared with bated breath as the scanner processed Steve's handprint. Just when they thought it wasn't going to work, the device lit up green and the door popped open.

They released a collective breath.

Steve led the way inside only to stop just inside the door. The other three filed in quietly, all taking in the destruction of the room with wide eyes.

"Do you think Natasha fought someone here?" Bruce asked as he nudged a piece of a broken wooden chair with his foot.

"It does seem as if a great battle was fought," Thor agreed.

"There was," Tony spoke up from where he was fingering a fist sized hole in the wall. "But not by Natasha and not against any tangible enemy."

"Clint," Steve realized quietly.

"The archer did this?" Thor's eyes widened.

"He'd just lost the love of his life," Tony explained. "I'm surprised this place is still standing."

"Barely," Bruce muttered, shifting the half hanging sink in the bathroom.

"He's obviously not here anymore," Steve pointed out. "We need to try and find any clue of where he went."

"We won't find anything." Tony shook his head. "Clint is the best at what he does. He doesn't want to be found so he won't be. He won't have left any trace for us to find."

"Then what is our next course of action?" Thor wondered, pushing at the fallen fridge with his foot.

Nobody had an immediate answer. Finally Steve sighed.

"We know he's in this city. So we'll turn over every rock until we find him."

"That sounds terribly inefficient." Tony frowned at him.

"What else do you suggest?" Bruce challenged.

"Clint is here on a one-man mission of destruction." He motioned around the destroyed room demonstratively. "So, we follow the destruction."

* * *

Clint didn't know he'd fallen asleep until he flinched awake at the sound of his door unlocking. He blinked blearily at the ceiling, wondering when he'd laid down on the floor. He quickly forced his arms underneath his body, pushing himself up with a stifled groan.

He hurt. His wrist, though he maintained that nothing was broken, was nastily bruised and stiff. The muscles in his back ached with deep bruising, especially across his shoulder blades. And his head was foggy, a sure fire sign of a concussion. He could feel the stiff dryness of old blood on his face and wondered if he looked as terrible as he felt.

He'd just made it to a wobbly standing position, his knee reminding him that it had been abused as well, when the door opened. Three guns led the way and then a large burly man stalked forward with handcuffs. Clint backed up strategically, forcing the man to move deeper into the room and farther from the guns. He was big enough that he'd serve as a suitable shield until the three guns ran out of ammo.

The burly man stopped two steps in front of the guns.

"You make a move and they kill the girl," he informed Clint in surprisingly good English.

Clint watched one of the guns pull back and move to the left in the hallway. Natasha could take care of herself, but Clint wasn't willing to risk her just yet. Not so soon after getting her back.

Clint glared at him. The man tossed the handcuffs at his feet.

"Put those on behind your back and then put your face against the wall."

Clint hesitated for only a moment before leaning over gingerly to pick up the cuffs. He snapped one ring around his bruised wrist and then slid his hands behind his back, clicking the other closed around his other wrist. He left them loose, but not so loose that it was obvious. With some doing he should be able to slip them. It wouldn't be fun, but he'd done it before. He'd rip up the skin on one of his hands, but it was definitely possible.

He turned and faced the wall. A foot kicked his legs farther apart and a strong hand pressed his head against the wall. He winced when the cuffs were tightened roughly, biting into the tender skin of his wrists. Suddenly there was a rope being forced under his bicep, over his back, and back under the other bicep. It was pulled tight, forcing his arms and shoulders back and restricting his arm movement to almost nothing.

"To make sure you don't go making any poor choices," the man hissed in his ear. Clint wasn't entirely surprised they were taking the precaution considering how easily he'd fought back  _last_ time they thought he was subdued.

Then Clint was pulled roughly around by his elbow and dragged towards the door.

* * *

Natasha perked up when she heard heavy feet on the stairs. She heard keys in the lock on Clint's door and stood, staring hard at the vent to hear what was going on. She and Clint had talked quietly for a good while before he'd almost abruptly stopped responding. It had only taken her a few moments of calling his name with no response to realize he'd either fallen asleep or passed out.

She heard the door open and felt her muscles tense even though she wasn't in the room.

"You make a move and they kill the girl," a rough voice nearly growled.

There was no response she could hear but the sound of metal hitting the concrete floor followed a few moments later. She scowled. It was already starting. They were already using her against him.

"Put those on behind your back and then put your face against the wall."

She heard the slight rattling of handcuffs being snapped into place. Then there was relative silence save for some rustling and the sudden sound of handcuffs being tightened. She strained to hear anything else as silence reigned for a few more moments.

"To make sure you don't go making any poor choices."

She wished she'd known what the hell that guy was talking about. Clint didn't offer any verbal response or any audible resistance as they forced him out of the room. Natasha slammed her open palm against the wall as she heard their footsteps fade away and she was left to wait _again_.

* * *

Clint forced his features to remain stone cold as he was slammed forcefully into an armless wooden chair. The tie was left around his biceps and looped over the back of the chair, forcing his bruised back against the hard wood. A second set of handcuffs was used to link the pair around his wrists to the cross bar between the back legs of the chair.

Effectively restrained, Clint could do nothing more than glare heatedly at the floor and force his breathing to remain calm and even. He listened as footsteps that could only belong to expensive shoes approached him from behind and came to stand in front of him.

He glared at the shoes. In his experience, people with expensive shoes were bad news.

"I have heard of the great SHIELD assassin known as Hawkeye, but I must admit, you are not what I was expecting."

"Everybody expects me to be taller." Clint smirked lazily as he raised his glare to pin on Baskov.

"I was simply expecting  _more_."

Clint didn't let the intended slight get to him. The number of bodies Baskov would be getting rid of after their first encounter spoke effectively to his defense.

"Sorry to disappoint." Clint shrugged in disinterest.

Baskov ignored his nonchalance and moved to sit casually in a chair across from him.

"Let me guess," Clint titled his head thoughtfully, "this is the part where you ask me a bunch of questions and threaten to hurt her if I don't answer."

Baskov smiled as if he knew something Clint didn't.

Clint's eyes narrowed at another set of footsteps approaching from behind.

"You have it all wrong, Hawkeye," Baskov explained casually, "You see, this was never about you and I."

"It was about me."

Clint couldn't help the sudden widening of his eyes as the deeply accented voice that rose from behind him. He knew that voice. He'd spent the nearly four years remembering the last time he'd heard that voice.

Josia Fourie.

_Shit._

* * *

_December 2009- approximately 3 years and 8 months ago…_

* * *

**Mission Number:**  D-15728

 **Code Name:**  Zion

 **Location:**  Cape Town, South Africa

 **Agent In Charge:**  Phillip "Overwatch" Coulson (ID: 235987YT)

 **Field Agent(s) Assigned:**  Clint "Hawkeye" Barton (ID: 494762DZ)

 **Threat Level:**  High

 **Level of Force:**  Lethal

 **Target:**  Abrehem Fourie

* * *

Clint bounced his feet where he had them propped against the back of the empty co-pilot's chair, silently keeping beat with the song he was listening to on his iPod. He flipped to the next page in the brief, staring at the picture of Abrehem Fourie standing in a café with a young man. Clint knew it to be his son, Josia Fourie. As he stared at the picture, he memorized every detail of Fourie senior's face, from the distance apart his eyes were set to the hint of grey in his short cropped hair. He had to be able to identify this man in possibly extreme conditions with very little time to deliberate.

"Cape Town is beautiful this time of year," Coulson commented idly as he looked over his own brief.

"Are you saying I'll get to work on my tan?" Clint asked with a smirk.

"We have a two week window…if we happen to complete our mission before that time has expired, we may be able to arrange some R&R. Didn't you say there was a local place you loved last time you were here?" Coulson shrugged as if it didn't matter to him either way.

"I promised Tasha I'd take my next R&R with her," Clint sighed.

Coulson glanced at his twenty four year old agent.

"You and Agent Romanoff seem to be growing increasingly  _intimate_ ," Coulson observed delicately. Clint gave him a withering look.

"Why don't you just ask me what you want to ask me?"

"You're sleeping together?"

"Is that mission relevant?" Clint taunted.

"Clint," Coulson sighed, "You know there are rules about that…"

"What's Fury going to do? Fire me? If he didn't fire me for bringing her in against orders, he won't fire me for sleeping with her." Clint waved away his handler's concern.

"She's dangerous," Coulson reminded.

"Yeah, well so am I."

"In a different way…she's a manipulator, Clint."

"I  _know_." Clint gave up all pretenses of reading his brief. "She's with us, Phil…trust me."

"What the hell happened with you two in Vietnam three months ago?" Phil shook his head bemusedly.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Clint grinned.

Phil sighed in exasperation and gave Clint an annoyed glare.

"Would you  _relax_?" Clint laughed. "I know what I'm doing. Just trust me."

"I do," Phil assured. He let the subject drop and reached for his mission file. "Abrehem Fourie runs a large international smuggling operation. He uses his shipping company as a front. As you know we've recently received intelligence that he's been providing his services to terrorist groups and he's become a confirmed threat to National Security."

"All you have to say is he's on SHIELD's shit list, Phil." Clint smirked as he flipped through his file.

"He's on SHIELD's shit list," Phil parroted obligingly.

"And that's where  _I_  come in."

"Orders are to take him out with prejudice."

"I do love doing things with prejudice."

Phil huffed a slight laugh.

"I know."

"So," Clint flipped his file closed and sat back, "you ever been to Cape Town, Phil?"

"Once or twice."

"I took a sort of vacation here. It was a cake-walk hit that only took me  _two_ hours. Anyway, there was this little place…"

Phil held up a hand to stop him.

"Why don't you just take me there when we arrive and I'll just try the food for myself?"

Clint blinked at him.

"Okay." He shrugged.

* * *

"Dankie." _(Thank you)_ Clint offered their young waitress a smile as she put their food on the table. She nodded in response and moved away.

Clint wasted no time diving into his chosen dish eagerly. Coulson, who had just ordered the same thing as Clint, watched in amusement.

"Phil, you've  _got_  to try this," Clint hummed in enjoyment as he chewed.

"That was my intent when I ordered it," Phil teased. He took his first bite with a bit more restraint than his agent had. Clint watched him like the hawk he was named for.

"Well?"

"Can I chew first?"

Clint rolled his eyes and waited a few moments for Phil to chew with exaggerated slowness. He swallowed and made a show of deeply considering his opinion on the food.

"It's very good," he finally admitted.

Clint smiled, looking unreasonably pleased. They ate in silence for a few moments before Phil snuck a quick glance up at his agent and ventured to speak.

"Are you happy, Clint?" he asked carefully.

Clint froze mid chew and looked up at him. He didn't have to ask what he meant by that.

"Yeah, Phil, I am."

Phil nodded, still looking troubled.

"She's not going to hurt me."

"I hope not."

"She won't."

Phil nodded once, unwilling to argue about it. He knew Romanoff wouldn't hurt Clint on purpose, that much was obvious in how she treated the archer. But she was a manipulator by trade and whether she'd done it on purpose or not, she'd gotten Clint to fall for her. He hoped Clint was right. He hoped she never decided Clint wasn't what she wanted.

Because Phil knew his agent better than anyone. He knew how to read Clint's eyes when the rest of the world would only see a blank wall. And he could see the truth even if Clint didn't want him to. Clint had given everything to her. His whole heart. And Phil was terrified that one day she would decide she didn't want it anymore. He'd picked up the pieces in Clint's life once before and it had been a heartbreaking and emotionally exhausting journey. He didn't want to do that again. But he would. He always would.

"Can we focus on the mission?" Clint sighed.

"Of course," Phil allowed with a small sigh. "You'll start your surveillance today. We've got a two week window, so take your time deciding when you want to make your move."

Clint nodded and they ate in silence for a few minutes.

"This might be one of my favorite local cuisines you've introduced me to," Phil announced suddenly.

Clint perked up, a smile lighting his features.

* * *

He watched Abrehem Fourie for nine days.

He came into their safe house at midnight of the ninth day with a plan.

"I'll take him out while he's at his shipping office tomorrow morning." Clint pointed to Fourie's ship yard on the map and traced his finger back to a building on the corner. "That's his building. I can get good line of sight on the door from an alley here." He pointed at a gap between two buildings.

Phil nodded.

"Timeline?"

"Short," Clint responded. "I'll take him out and haul ass."

Phil stared at the map and nodded approvingly.

"Looks good, let's get this done and go home."

* * *

"I've got eyes on his car," Clint announced, pulling back a little farther into the shadows of his alley. His hand twitched towards where his bow was stored at the small of his back, but didn't reach for it yet.

" _ID on Fourie confirmed?"_

"Not yet."

Clint waited patiently for the car to pull to a stop. He watched his target and his son Josia step out of the car.

"Confirmed, Abrehem Fourie."

" _Take the shot."_

Clint pulled his bow and was about to snap it out to full form when it happened. He decided, as the little boy ran out of the building he was standing next to, screeching in joy, that he really had the worst luck.

Only one of Fourie's men looked over, seeing the little boy and then looking beyond to the alley, but one was all it took. Clint knew the exact moment he saw him, standing in a shaded alley watching them closely. The man shouted and suddenly six men were running towards him. A man dressed in black, standing in an alley, watching a man like Abrehem Fourie was obviously cause for great alarm, because they pulled side arms as they ran.

Clint cursed and backed into the alley, sprinting away.

" _What's going on?"_

"I got made. I'm bugging out."

Clint ducked instinctively when a bullet bounced off the side of the building next to him.

He cursed again and ran harder, sprinting across a road and into another alley. They were sticking with him and he'd seen a car racing down a side street to get ahead of him.

"I'm gonna get caught," he announced to his handler. He cut down another alley and stashed his bow in a small trash dumpster and kept running. He'd let Coulson know where it was, because there was no way he was letting these guys get their hands on that fine piece of weaponry.

" _It'd be really nice if you could avoid that."_

"You're telling me," Clint huffed sarcastically. He glanced around hopefully.  _Of course_ there wouldn't be a fire escape when he needed one.

He turned left only to back pedal when he came face to face with four men with guns. Bullets sliced into the air around him and he ducked to his right, cursing when the alley came to a dead end. He spun around. He had to go back across their line of fire if he had a hope of getting away.

"Have I mentioned how much my luck sucks?" he asked his handler with a sigh as he ran back the way he'd come. He sprinted across the open area, his body jerking when a bullet bit into his left side. It tore through the muscle and out the back. Not the worst bullet wound he'd ever gotten, but still a bullet wound.

Clint stumbled, but made it across the area and kept running. He rounded a corner only to see his original pursuers running towards him. He turned back, pulling up short when the men that had shot at him rounded the corner.

"Dammit," he muttered, raising his hands in surrender. He watched them move closer, though none of them got within striking distance. They were smart. That was new. He saw the two darts from the taser out of the corner of his eye and barely got out a curse before they bit into his right side. There was pain for several moments and then unconsciousness glided in and swept him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 7
> 
> The next chapter will show the rest of the original Fourie mission and then we will rejoin the story in real time. I hope every body enjoyed checking in with the rest of our heroes at the beginning. They're closing in...but will they be in time? *cue tense music*
> 
> For all of you that have been waiting to hear just what the heck happened the first time Clint was sent to South Africa by SHIELD, now you'll get to know.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Here's your preview:
> 
> "So are you this Fourie guy everybody keeps talking about?" Clint asked curiously, hoping to drive home that he wasn't a threat. Fourie smiled the most patronizing smile Clint had ever seen.
> 
> "Do not play games with me. You know who I am."
> 
> Clint let his wide eyed, innocent expression melt away into his stone cold mask. To an observer it would be wildly disconcerting. Abrehem Fourie was no exception, but he hid it well.


	8. I'm Barely Holdin' On To You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Enjoy!

_One good act of vengeance deserves another._

**_John Jefferson_ **

* * *

_December 2009_

* * *

The first thing Clint was aware of when he returned to consciousness was sharp pain in his cheek. He blinked, opening bleary eyes to watch a hand lower down to a very large man's side.

Why did people always  _slap_  someone to wake them up?

He blinked again, looking up at the slapper and frowning. He felt handcuffs biting into his wrists and binding them behind his back. His head was pounding. But the most prominent pain demanding his attention was the bullet hole in his side. It was still bleeding and it hurt. A lot. Bullet wounds tended to and he was practically an expert in the area.

"Wie is jy?"  _(Who are you?)_  the large man demanded roughly.

Clint blinked at him, his mind automatically translating the Afrikaans words for him. It took him a split second to decide how to play this. He had a quiver on his back. He frowned. He  _had_  a quiver on his back. He'd also had a wicked knife sheathed at his back. He could tell it was gone as well. Those were going to be huge clues to them that he wasn't just a young tourist. A quiver with no bow probably seemed odd to them, though. His mind raced. He realized he was taking too long to answer when a fist suddenly crashed into his cheek.

"Wie is jy?!"  _(Who are you?!)_  the man shouted.

"Ek is net 'n reisiger,"  _(I'm just a traveler)_  Clint replied quickly, raising wide blue-grey eyes that were brimming with fear and innocence.

"Watter soort van reisiger dra iets soos hierdie?"  _(What kind of traveler carries something like this?)_  the man challenged, motioning at Clint's quiver that one of the other men in the room had looped over his shoulder. Clint resisted the urge to glare.

"Ek doen truuks,"  _(I do tricks)_ Clint replied with a hint of desperation in his voice. "Ek kan 'n teiken getref. Wel..." _(I can hit any target. Well...)_  he quirked his mouth sheepishly, "byna 'n teiken."  _(almost any target.)_  He frowned. "Wel, 'n teiken Ek het 'n duidelike lyn van sig en dit is nie te ver weg."  _(Well, any target I have a clear line of sight to and that isn't too far away.)_

"Hoe doen jy truuks met net pyle?"  _(How do you do tricks with just the arrows?)_  the man scowled.

"Ek doen nie," _(I don't)_  Clint frowned as if he were confused.

"Dan waar is jou boog?"  _(Then where is your bow?)_

"Oh!" Clint smiled in relief. "Ek dra dit nie met my oral. Iemand kan seerkry."  _(I don't carry it with me everywhere. Somebody could get hurt.)_

The man's eyes narrowed, but he seemed to accept the response.

"As jy 'n reisiger is net, hoe jy praat Afrikaans so goed?"  _(If you are just a traveler, how do you speak Afrikaans so well?)_

"Ek het gereis hierdie land vir 'n rukkie en ek is goed met tale."  _(I've been traveling this country for a while and I'm good with languages.)_  Clint shrugged as innocently as he could manage.

"Waarom is jy kyk na mnr. Fourie?" _(Why were you watching Mr. Fourie?)_

Clint put on his most confused and bewildered expression.

"Wie?"  _(Who?)_

"Hy het nie geweet nie,"  _(He doesn't know anything)_ another man spoke up from near the door.

"Ons sal laat mnr. Fourie is die regter van daardie. Maar eers sal ons leer hom 'n paar maniere."  _(We will let Mr. Fourie be the judge of that. But first we will teach him some manners.)_ The man cracked his knuckles and Clint forced his eyes to widen and show fear he wasn't feeling. "En dan sal ons hom in die stoor kamer tot Mnr. Fourie is gereed om met hom te praat."  _(And then we will put him in the storage room until Mr. Fourie is ready to talk to him.)_ **  
**

Clint blew out a deep breath and mentally prepared himself to get his ass kicked. He really didn't think it was very sporting since he was handcuffed and shot. They didn't seem to care though. Bad guys never did.

He did his best to keep his knees drawn up to his chest to protect his ribs, but he could do little to protect his back and head as fists and boots rained down on him. By the time they were dragging him towards what he assumed was the storage room, his bell was good and properly rung. His vision was swimming and his thoughts were fuzzy. He blacked out as soon as they tossed him to the hard stone floor of what was going to be his cell.

* * *

Clint woke to his handler's voice, squawking in his ear through the communicator implanted in his tooth. He forced himself up to rest against the wall and winced at the pain that seemed to have decided to just cover every inch of his body.

 _"Hawkeye!"_  Coulson yelled at him over the comms.  _"Answer me, dammit!"_

"Cool it, Overwatch. I'm... _mostly_ …good." Clint coughed, tasting blood in his mouth. He used his tongue to feel the small communication device implanted in his fake molar.

_"Sit rep!"_

"Detained against my will," Clint informed cheerfully. He could almost hear his handler's eye roll.

_"Status?"_

"Gunshot to the left side…through and through."

_"Blood loss?"_

"Still happening," Clint groaned, shifting against the stone wall of his cell.

" _Do something about it,"_  Coulson snapped.  _"Are you compromised?"_

"I ditched my bow before they caught up with me. Three blocks north of their building in a dumpster. They haven't acted like they know why I was watching them. Didn't mean they weren't pissed though," He said the last part under his breath, almost hoping Coulson didn't hear it.

_"What did they do?"_

"Nothing much…just showed me some of their old fashioned hospitality."

Hospitality was their code for "they beat me into unconsciousness" without Clint actually having to admit it had happened.

" _I'm calling for an extraction."_

"Wait!" Clint groaned, shifting again. "I can take it…and I can still finish this."

_"The mission is blown, Hawkeye. It's time to get you out of there."_

"It's not blown. Fourie's going to want to talk to me himself. Be ready for me to come out hot after I eliminate him."

_"You really think you can pull this off?"_

"Trust me. I'm gonna do it like Sao Paulo four years ago."

 _"You were in medical for a month after that,"_  Coulson reminded mildly, already knowing he was going to agree.

"I can take it, Overwatch…I'll get it done."

Coulson sighed over the comms.

_"I know you will. Just try to get it done **and**  stay in one piece."_

"Awe, Overwatch, you care."

 _"Don't go making any wild assumptions."_ He could hear the smile in his handler's tone.

"You big softie."

_"Don't breathe a word of it to anyone."_

"Or what? You'll kill me with all your big bad softie-ness?" _  
_

_"That's not even a thing."_

"Well I guess  _you_  would know."

_"I'm just speaking in the best interest of my blood pressure. And the fact that I found a gray hair today and I'm choosing to blame you."_

"I don't see how it's  _my_  fault."

_"Shall we review the facts? Before I met you how many times had I had to patch up someone who'd been shot, tortured, or otherwise harmed?"_

"Probably several because you were a supervisory field agent."

_"Number still doesn't compare to the tally you've got going kid."_

"Should I be proud?"

_"No."_

"Not even a little?"

_"No."_

"Fine."

_"Try to get some rest, Hawk, I'll be here the whole time."_

Clint settled his head back against his wall, letting his eyes fall closed.

"It'd be better if you were  _here_ ," he mumbled as he drifted off. He thought he might have heard Coulson respond, but was asleep before he could be sure.

_"You have no idea, kid."_

* * *

"They're coming," Clint whispered, leaning back against the wall and striving to look weak and scared. He'd slept for less than an hour before a sound outside his little room woke him. He winced as his bullet wound pulled, the make shift bandage he'd created out of his t-shirt was holding fairly well for the time being. "I swear to god, Overwatch, if I get my tooth ripped out of mouth again I'm never wearing a comm. again  _ever._  We'll communicate by smoke signals."

" _Noted,"_  Coulson replied dryly, " _Now if a situation for escape doesn't present itself, create one. Make it genuine, something that would probably happen eventually anyway if you weren't so goddamned stubborn."_

"Why is it always the negative with you," Clint sighed with mock scolding. "Maybe they just want to have a nice chat with warm beverages and snacks."

" _Yeah."_  Clint was sure, again, that he could  _hear_  his handler rolling his eyes.  _"Let me know how that works out for you."_

"Your confidence is overwhelming," Clint muttered just before the door swung inward and the hulking figure that had questioned him before stepped in.

" _Whatever happens, Hawk, I'm right here with you."_

Clint didn't get to respond to the suddenly serious words of comfort and assurance. He let himself be pulled roughly to his feet and allowed his hands to be handcuffed behind his back. Whatever they thought of him, they didn't believe he was a serious threat. With some doing, he could slip those cuffs. It would hurt like hell and probably tear up his hand pretty good, but it was doable. Doable was all he needed.

They pulled Clint roughly from the small storage closet, that had really only held a few boxes of packing supplies, and down the hall. They came to an open door and his escort all but shoved him through it. Two more sets of hands latched onto his biceps and sat him down roughly in a chair.

Clint let the wince at the rough treatment show. The character he was playing wouldn't hide pain. There was a clicking of expensive shoes on the floor in the hallway. Clint tuned his ears and waited. The footsteps drew closer and finally came into the room. Clint turned his head to watch Abrehem Fourie walk around him to take a seat in a chair a few feet away, resting Clint's quiver on the ground next to him.

Josia Fourie moved to stand at his father's shoulder.

The three of them just looked at each other for a few moments. Clint took the opportunity to analyze both of them, sizing them up in a way only an assassin could, all the while keeping his expression bewildered and a little frightened.

Abrehem Fourie was broad shouldered with graying patches on his temples that gave his thick black hair a distinguished look. His eyes were wise with a life time of experience and he was watching Clint with the kind of masked superiority that one cultivated over a life time of defeating adversaries.

Josia Fourie was not his father. His looks were softer and his eyes not as wise. He hadn't learned the lessons his father had, at least not yet. He was wary of Clint, watching him carefully, but without any real concern. He was young, barely older than Clint himself if he was older at all. He was his father in the making, being molded, no doubt, to take over one day. But he was very obviously not ready yet.

"Laat ons,"  _(Leave us)_  Fourie senior instructed sharply.

Immediately, Clint heard the men crowded behind him file out of the room. Josia didn't move.

Clint looked back and forth between them, waiting.

When Abrehem spoke, it was in English.

"My men tell me you are a man of a unique talent," Abrehem began amicably.

"I'm just making a living," Clint replied carefully.

"Indeed." Abrehem was looking at him like he knew something Clint didn't. Clint hated it when people looked at him like that.

"So are you this Fourie guy everybody keeps talking about?" Clint asked curiously, hoping to drive home that he wasn't a threat. The older man smiled the most patronizing smile Clint had ever seen. He wanted to knock that smile right off his face.

"Do not play games with me,  _Hawkeye_. You know who I am and I know who you are. And we both know why you are here."

Clint let his wide eyed, innocent expression melt away into his stone cold mask. To an observer it would be wildly disconcerting. Abrehem Fourie was no exception, but he hid it well. Better than anyone Clint had ever met. Josia wasn't so stoic. Clint could see the fear cloud the young man's eyes. The archer cocked his head to the side and shifted, subtly grabbing one of his cuffs with one hand and starting to work the other hand free.

"It was the quiver, wasn't it?" Clint deduced with a dark smirk, watching Abrehem with narrowed eyes.

"One does not survive in this business as long as I have without knowing all the players, my friend. There is only one assassin in the world that carries a bow as his primary weapon. And that  _you_  are a traveling archer that just happened to be watching me from an alley?" Abrehem shook his head. "I do not believe in coincidence." He held out his hand to Josia, who immediately produced Clint's cherished knife, a gift from Coulson, and handed it to his father. "I also do not believe a mere traveler would carry a weapon as beautiful as this."

Clint glared. He didn't like people handling his weapons. And these guys were just doing it all over the place.

"So why am I still alive? And why are we having this conversation in English?" Clint asked with a knowing arch to his eyebrow.

"You are indeed perceptive," Abrehem paused, "may I call you Hawkeye?"

"Better than some other things I've been called," Clint allowed with a shrug.

Abrehem laughed, but his eyes were hard.

"A sense of humor too. You are a rare kind of man, Hawkeye."

"I'm a regular barrel of laughs," Clint deadpanned. "You didn't answer my questions."

"This business is a fickle one," Abrehem explained. "Loyal men are hard to come by."

Clint's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"You don't want your men to know you've been marked," he deduced.

"There again, is that perceptiveness," Abrehem smiled as if he were fascinated by him.

"You just can't find good evil minions these days. I think it's the economy."

Abrehem laughed.

"I could use a man like you, Hawkeye. It is unfortunate what must come next. Yours is a terrible talent to waste."

"So what?" Clint wondered. "You haven't killed me. You going to interrogate me to find out who I work for?"

"Would you tell me if I did?" Abrehem asked knowingly.

"You're pretty perceptive yourself, Fourie," Clint smirked.

"Yes I am. That is how I know that no method of interrogation will get you to tell me what I need to know."

"So we just gonna sit here and keep shooting the breeze?" Clint asked, feeling blood run down his fingers from his wrist as the skin tore. He was getting there. "Because I like small talk as much as the next guy, but I've got things to do."

"No, Hawkeye." Abrehem handed the knife back to Josia and reached for Clint's quiver drawing out a single arrow. "I'm not going to ask you any more questions." Clint watched him rise. "I hope you don't mind my son's presence. It is time he learned how to handle these types of situations himself."

"Passing torture methods from father to son. That's touching," Clint deadpanned as he steeled his expression, refusing to show his rising trepidation.

He blinked, expelled a sharp breath, and resisted the urge to draw away when Abrehem ran the arrow tip across the soft skin under Clint's right eye.

"I'm told that you're eyesight is a thing of perfection," Abrehem spoke quietly, leaning over to look Clint directly in the eyes. "It's where you get your name, isn't it. Eyes like a hawk."

Clint stared back at him unflinchingly, working continuously on freeing his hands. He realized he wasn't going to get his hand out without either cutting off his thumb or dislocating it. Neither option sounded enticing.

"You see, Josia, it is important to know everything about a man, when you want to cause him pain.  _This_  man is valued most for his aim." He rolled the arrow tip lightly back and forth beneath Clint's eye. "A man cannot aim if he cannot see, what does that tell you, Josia?"

"If you take his eyes, he is worthless," Josia answered darkly, moving to stand next to his father.

"Indeed," Abrehem agreed. "Is that what you fear, Hawkeye?" he asked. "Being worthless? You do not fear pain or death, that much I can see for myself."

Clint flinched when Abrehem sliced the arrow tip suddenly downward, opening a cut on Clint's face from just below his eye down to even with his nose.

" _Whatever's happening Hawk, focus on your mission."_

Phil's voice was so sudden, Clint almost looked around to see if he was in the room. His handler had remained uncharacteristically silent since the storage room, allowing Clint to play things however he saw fit. Clint didn't know how he always sensed when Clint was distressed, but it was like he had a freaking radar.

Abrehem nodded at his son to take a turn. Following his father's example, the young man touched the razor sharp tip of Clint's own knife to the unblemished skin under his left eye.

"What would the  _Hawkeye_  be without his eyes?" Josia taunted, running the knife tip lightly down the rest of Clint's face and then down the curve of his neck. He rested it briefly on the pulse point in his neck and then continued down his chest. The trail he left was nothing more than a scratch, shallow and barely bleeding. But to Clint it felt like a paper cut running from his cheek to his chest and stung like hell.

He really needed to not sharpen that thing so well.

Josia stopped his journey of carnage, hovering over the t-shirt bandaged bullet wound.

Without warning he drew the knife away and slammed his fist into the wound.

Clint's breath left him in a rush and pain took over every part of his consciousness. He tried to double over, but Josia, looking suddenly crazed, dug his fingers into the hair at the back of Clint's head and jerked his head back, pressing the knife point into the tender skin below his left eye once again. Clint fought every instinct to flinch away. If Josia's grip slipped even just a little...

He glared up at Abrehem, his storm colored eyes promising the death he'd come to bring, as the man laughed.

"Very well done, Josia," Abrehem praised. He motioned Josia to step back and he did immediately. Abrehem replaced him, drawing Clint's head back with the same hair-ripping grip and pressing the arrow point against the same tender skin so dangerously close to his eye. Clint didn't even breathe.

"First I will take your eyes with your own weapon and then I will break every bone in your hands. Then perhaps, you will understand what happens to those who threaten me."

Clint stared at him. Abrehem pulled back the arrow, preparing to strike. Clint acted, desperation and rare fear fueling his actions. He forced his left thumb out of socket and ripped the hand cuff off, tearing up the skin as he went. He brought his arms around and knocked away the arrow. He planted his hands on either side of his chair drove his boots into the shocked Abrehem's chest. Clint sprang up, knocked his knife out of Josia's hand, and drove a high snap kick into his jaw, knocking him back against the wall. Then he twisted into the air and scissored his legs around Abrehem's chest and shoulders as the man charged him. He spun them both sharply to the ground.

Two moves later he had the older man's neck trapped between his thighs and one of his arms pulled through and locked to his chest.

"You had it wrong, Fourie," Clint hissed. "I don't  _threaten_. I just kill." He jerked his body and heard the man's neck snap. "Target is..." he was cut off when an arm suddenly wrapped around his throat from behind.

 _"Hawkeye?"_  Coulson sounded concerned, but Clint ignored him for the moment as he watched the wall rush towards him.

He raised his boots just in time, running up the surface and flipping over Josia's head, forcing his grip to dislodge. Clint landed heavily, stumbling back a step when his bullet wound howled in protest. Josia turned, swinging his fist wildly. Clint ducked, used a hand to force Josia's momentum to twist his body further and then slammed his bloody left fist into the man's short ribs.

Josia reversed his swing, and Clint ducked again, sending his palm into the man's sternum. Josia stumbled back with a cough. Clint pushed forward, intending to snap a side kick into the man's exposed ribs. Josia recovered more quickly than he'd anticipated and caught his leg against his side. Then he slammed a fist into Clint's bullet wound  _hard_.

Clint's vision went grey and a shove sent him stumbling back. The boot that hit his chest in the next moment sent him sprawling onto his back and his head cracked against the hard floor.

He felt a hand grab his ankle and yank him sharply across the floor. His vision faded back in time to see Josia reaching for the nearest weapon, which happened to be the arrow Abrehem had been using to taunt him with. Clint twisted, using the foot Josia wasn't holding captive to kick the man's wrist and dislodge his grip. Then he drove his now freed boot into the side of Josia's knee.

The man gasped and fell to one knee. Clint surged to his feet, but wavered when his vision swam dizzyingly. The moment it took him to regain his equilibrium gave Josia the moment he need to prepare. Clint charged, Josia let him. He let Clint's body hit him, wrapped his arms around the archer's shoulders and twisted. Clint slammed into the floor again, this time with Josia straddling him. A fist slammed into his cheek, but he regained his sense in time to block the neck blow. He delivered one of his own, knocking Josia back briefly.

He slid his hands across the floor, searching for a weapon, even as Josia recovered and wrapped a hand around Clint's throat. He used his other hand to pull a small knife from his boot.

"It may be small, but it will still serve its purpose," Josia hissed, bringing the knife towards Clint's face. Clint didn't fight the urge to move this time. He flailed and thrashed, all the while searching for anything with his bloody left hand and trying to hold Josia back with the other.

He felt the sharp tip of his abandon arrow and wrapped his fingers around it, pulling it towards him. He brought a knee hard up into Josia's back, jolting him and sending the small knife slicing across Clint's cheek. Then he knocked away the knife with his right hand, brought his right elbow into Josia's jaw and shoved him back.

Clint brought the arrow up and stabbed out through dizzily shifting vision just as Josia leaned forward again. His arrow sliced into the right side of the man's throat and he fell back, his hand going quickly to his neck, fingers wrapping around the arrow lodged there. Clint kicked him away and grabbed his quiver and his knife. He was on his feet and out the door without another thought to Josia Fourie.

"Target is down," he gasped as he made his way into the heart of the building.

_"What's the situation?"_

"Gotta do some house cleaning, make sure nobody's left behind to tell the tale."

_"Make it quick and haul your ass back here."_

"Yeah, no argument here."

_"That's a first."_

Clint smiled, Phil always knew just what to say exactly when Clint needed him to say it. The dry sarcasm was a balm to his frayed nerves and abused body.

He'd regret later not making sure Josia was dead before he escaped. He had to spend several minutes hunting down the rest of Fourie's men in the building. With Coulson's knife in his hand it was almost laughably easy and by the time he was done all he could think about was getting the hell out of this country.

* * *

Coulson was opened the door to the safe house as Clint ran up to it and ushered the injured agent inside, taking the quiver from where it hung on Clint's shoulder.

"On the cot, get that bandage off. Jesus, are you still bleeding?"

"Pull up the local news," Clint demanded even as he peeled the soiled bandage and sat down heavily on the cot. Phil flipped on their little TV even as he moved to the medical supplies. He came back with saline solution and bandages. He forced Clint to lean back and started cleaning the bullet wound.

"God damn it," Clint hissed, eyes pinned on the TV.

"What is it?" Coulson demanded, not taking his eyes off his project. This was probably the soonest he'd ever been able to treat one of Clint's numerous gunshot woods. It was heartening to know he was treating it before an infection or anything else could go wrong.

"The fucker survived," Clint snapped, trying to sit up straighter to see the TV better. Coulson pushed him back.

Coulson turned to the TV in time to see a man who he knew to be Josia Fourie being rushed out of an ambulance and into the local hospital, gauze packed around his neck. He was awake and glaring at the camera in his face. He pushed away the hands holding him down and pulled away his oxygen mask.

"I know your face,  _duiwel_ ," _(demon)_  he stated harshly, spitting the insult in a voice rough with pain. "I will find you."

Clint would never forget those words or the man snarling them. The same man that had been about to cut out his eyes.

The medical personnel pushed him back down and rolled him away from the cameras and into the hospital.

"I thought you killed him," Phil stated calmly as he turned back to start bandaging the wound.

"I stabbed him in the neck with an arrow," Clint gestured at the screen. "Nobody should be able to survive that."

"Looks like he did."

Clint angrily snatched the bottle of saline and threw it at the TV. It was official, South Africa hated him. First the damn kid that drew attention to his position, then getting shot  _again_ , captured, beaten up and threatened with having his  _eyes_  cut out. Now, a man that had seen his face had survived getting  _stabbed in the neck_  with an arrow.

Fucking South Africa.

"Clint." Coulson eyed him warily, his knowing gaze telling Clint he knew exactly what was running through his agent's mind.

"He saw my face, Phil!"

"I know," Phil assured calmly as he took Clint's injured left hand and started wrapping it in gauze.

"I'm a covert operative. Nobody's supposed to be alive to remember my face."

Shit had hit the fan before, but he'd always completed his mission. He'd never left a trace more than his arrows, and even then for most of his career he'd never been more than a shadow. So all the arrows meant was that the mysterious "Hawkeye" had been there. Very few people knew the face behind the bow.

"And now someone is, so we adapt."

"And how the hell do we do that?"

"First, we get you the hell out of South Africa and you don't ever come back unless you can be  _absolutely_  sure that man won't know you're here."

"You think that will be enough?" Clint asked with a scoff.

"It'll have to be. Josia Fourie wasn't the objective. In that building he was collateral damage. Now he's a target. Until a kill order comes down on him, you can't go after him. The Council will have your ass if you do and they're already going to be gunning for you after this."

Clint fisted his hand in the blanket on the cot. Fucking Council. He was starting to hate those guys as much as they seemed to hate him. And this was just going to tickle them pink. It wasn't the first time he'd cultivated an enemy, he had a list of them from his time as a contract killer. But after killing Akos all those years ago when the man tried to double cross him, those enemies had kept their distance.

But this was the first time he'd done it on SHIELD's dime. The first time he hadn't ended a mission with 100% success and it was already burning at him. He felt like he'd failed somehow.

"Come on," Phil urged, drawing him from his morose thoughts. "It'll all be okay," he stated, as if he'd been listening in on his agent's thoughts. The handler rose and started gathering their things. "Right now, we need to get out of the country before he can talk to any of his people. I'll finish getting you patched up on the flight out."

Clint nodded and pushed himself up, catching the t-shirt Coulson tossed him and groaning his way into it. He spied his bow on the table and moved towards it, nodding his thanks to Coulson for its retrieval. Then he shrugged into his quiver and stowed his bow at the small of his back while Coulson cleared the room, throwing anything that could be tied to them into the burn bin and activating it.

Clint walked out of the safe house with the knowledge that until Josia Fourie was dead, South Africa would never be safe for him. He could never come back because if he did there would be a target on his back the moment he stepped foot in the country. South Africa had apparently decided to hate him. Penance, perhaps, for taking a contract in Cape Town all those years ago when he was working for the highest bidder. He'd spilled somebody's blood here, maybe somebody innocent. The country, apparently, wasn't going to forgive him for it.

And he knew that Josia Fourie wouldn't either. Abrehem Fourie hadn't been innocent by anybody's definition, but he was the guy's father. Clint didn't know much about fathers, but as Coulson led him quickly through the streets towards their evacuation point, stealing concerned glances over his shoulder the entire way, Clint acknowledged that he knew a little something about family.

And if he had been in Josia's shoes, and it had been  _Coulson_  stolen from  _him_...

He wouldn't forgive either and he'd never _ever_ forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 8
> 
> Now we all know what happened in the original Fourie mission! And hopefully everybody can see why it was such a big deal that Josia Fourie survived. Until this point, nobody had survived to remember what Clint looked like. Having anonymity is huge in Clint's line of work. So there's that. And if you've been wondering why Clint is so wary of Josia Fourie, hopefully that showed it a little. The guy was a sadist in the making back then and he's had almost four years of hating Clint to get even worse.
> 
> For reference: in this chapter if he spoke of "Fourie" he was talking about Abrehem. I refered to them as "Abrehem" and "Josia" when they were together because using "Fourie" would have been confusing. From this point on when Clint talks about "Fourie" he's speaking of Josia, the son.
> 
> We rejoin real time next chapter and the rest of the story will play out without any more flashbacks :)
> 
> Here's your preview (it's a long one, I know, but I wanted to get you fired up):
> 
> "Four. I'd start saying my goodbyes, Hawkeye," Fourie suggested with a satisfied smirk.
> 
> "Don't do this!" Clint shouted. "Just kill me!"
> 
> "Where would be the fun in that?" Fourie glared. "Three."
> 
> "Clint, it's okay," Natasha insisted. "Look at me!" she snapped. His storm colored eyes snapped to hers. "You'll be okay." She assured.
> 
> He shook his head sharply and pulled again.
> 
> "Two."
> 
> "NO!" Clint raged, throwing every piece of his being into pulling at his restraints. He thought of Natasha, of the last four years together, of the tenderness they'd shared, of the moments they'd laughed together, bled together, fought together, of the moment in Vietnam they'd given everything to each other. Then he thought of the last few days, of believing she was dead, of the pain that had consumed him, of finding her alive, of seeing her hurt, of what it would mean if he lost her forever.
> 
> And quite suddenly the wooden cross bar his handcuffs were fastened to, snapped.


	9. In The Pain, There Is Healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> So sorry for not posting last night - I'm about a week and half away from moving halfway across the country and am neck deep in packing. I'll post the rest of this story right now so you can finish it out :)

_If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?_

**_William Shakespeare_ **

* * *

Clint watched Josia Fourie walk around to stand in front of him and everything clicked horrifyingly into place. Fourie had been hunting him for well over three years. They'd had close calls in Dubai, Melbourne, and Tokyo. Every time it had been obvious to Clint that Fourie had managed to learn a little more about him. If anyone was going to have learned enough to figure out his greatest weakness, it was going to be his man.

Clint met his eyes squarely, determined to show this man that he may be subdued but he wasn't beaten, not yet.

"I have waited many years for this moment, Hawkeye," Fourie stated darkly. Clint took whatever comfort he could that the man didn't know his real name.

Without further ado, Fourie slammed a right cross into Clint's face. It hit so hard the chair rocked slightly onto two legs. Clint saw white for several seconds and had to shake his head to clear it. A hand tightened around the hair at the back of his head and yanked his head backwards. He felt a shot of trepidation, recalling the last time this man had held his head back.

"I have  _dreamed_  of all the ways I would hurt you."

He slammed a fist into Clint's exposed abdomen. The archer doubled as much as he could, coughing.

"I have  _planned_  how I would kill you, far more painfully than you killed my father." He swung a hard back hand into the left side of Clint's face, snapping his head to the side.

"But first," Fourie whispered, drawing close to Clint's ear, "first I will destroy you."

He backed away, allowing Clint to regain his senses. The archer spit blood at the South African's shoes. He glanced at Baskov standing back in the corner when the man spoke.

"Fourie, there is the matter of my payment."

"Our agreement was that you would be paid when he was dead."

"So  _kill_  him," Baskov arched an eyebrow and scowled.

"In good time. Rest assured, you will get your money," Fourie waved him off. Baskov's frown deepened but he didn't protest further.

"I see you've made friends in low places, Baskov," Clint sneered. "It's gonna be hard to get your money when I kill him." He tilted his head toward Fourie, but kept his steely gaze on Baskov. "And don't think I've forgotten  _your_  part in this."

"I'm a professional. I am here for the money, nothing more. This is not personal," Baskov defended, unsure why he thought it necessary when the man was bound and fully restrained.

"It was personal to  _me_ ," Clint nearly growled at him. Then he turned his attention back to Fourie. "He was a front man," Clint surmised. "You used him to draw her out, her to draw me out, and stayed behind the curtain like a coward until everything had played out."

"You call it cowardice." Fourie shrugged. "I call it brilliance. I finally trapped you, didn't I? After so many close calls over the years."

"Yeah, Fourie, you got me." Clint laughed derisively. "So now what? What exactly is your  _brilliant_  plan to get your revenge?"

He was smiling condescendingly, but inside trepidation was building. He remembered what had almost happened last time he was bound before this man. And this time he had Natasha to throw into the mix as well. Whatever the man had planned, it was going to be bad. He watched Fourie nod at someone out of Clint's sight.

"I am going to break you down until you are  _nothing_  and then," Fourie smiled darkly, "when you are at your weakest. I will destroy your very soul. And only _then_  will I finally kill you."

Clint felt a shot of real, honest to god, bone-chilling fear.

Natasha was right. They'd kept her alive for a reason. They'd kept her alive so Fourie could kill her with Clint bound to a chair and unable to stop it. Whatever Fourie had planned to hurt him physically, none of it would compare to  _watching_  her die.

He suddenly, irrationally, pulled at his cuffs, feeling the metal bite into his skin and draw blood.

Fourie laughed, obviously pleased that he'd finally managed to garner his desired reaction. The South African's attention diverted to something behind Clint.

"Ah, our other guest arrives."

Clint knew before Fourie announced it that she was close. He couldn't stop himself from twisting his neck to see her and watch her get escorted into the room. The only thought he could from, which may have had something to do with a concussion, was that she was beautiful. Blood dried on the side of her face, hair hanging in slightly greasy waves down to brush her shoulders. Still she held herself almost regally; her shoulders back and chin high. Her impossibly green eyes were locked on him just as firmly, despite the swelling that threatened to start forcing one of them closed.

She was still the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

The rollercoaster of emotions he'd been riding the past couple of days threatened to overwhelm him again, but he pushed it away, maintaining his composure flawlessly everywhere but his eyes. He let her see everything in his eyes for only a moment before he locked those down too.

Natasha hadn't known exactly what to expect when she'd been forcibly subdued in her cell, bound, and escorted up the stairs. She hadn't resisted for the same reason Clint hadn't. She wasn't willing to risk his safety until she was there to watch his back. When they reached the room, the first thing she'd seen was Josia Fourie and everything had suddenly made perfect, terrifying sense. He must have paid Baskov to front him for this little ruse.

The next thing she saw was Clint, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of her. And the trepidation and worry that had been her constant companion melted away. They were together now and they were always stronger together.

He looked terrible. His face was bloody and bruised, his shoulders hunched ever so slightly as if he were in pain, his right wrist was bruised darkly and both were bleeding sluggishly under the pressure of his handcuffs. His beautiful storm colored eyes were fixed on her as if she were a beacon of light in the darkness. For the briefest of moments, he told her everything she needed to know with his eyes. And then he locked down. That moment had been enough. He was hurting, he was angry, he was terrified, but he was still her strong hawk. He would still fight for her until his last breath. His eyes grounded her.

He was her rock. He had been for seven years even before she knew it herself.

They kept their eyes locked as she was led around him and fastened to a chair in the same fashion he'd been. Their determination not to underestimate them held true when they used a roll of duct tape to trap her ankles against the front legs of the chair.

"The illustrious Black Widow, we finally meet." Fourie made a show of looking her up and down. She spared him a brief, heated glare.

"I wish I could say it was a pleasure," Natasha hissed before returning her eyes to Clint. Her head snapped to the side when she was hit with a vicious black hand from Fourie.

"It is indeed _my_  pleasure," Fourie replied easily. "Now," he moved to stand in front of Clint, breaking their line of sight on each other, "shall we proceed?"

With that he drove his fist into Clint's cheek.

* * *

"I've got it!" Tony stood suddenly, raising his laptop with him.

"What?" Steve demanded.

"Multiple shots fired last night at a town house."

"Why haven't the police moved on it?" Bruce asked carefully.

"Because it was officially reported as a false alarm," Tony explained. "But apparently that's a big fat lie." He turned his lap top so they could see it. It showed a picture from a social networking site of a door obviously forced back into place on broken hinges with multiple bullet holes in it. A caption below it stated:

_Sounded like an action movie down the street last night! Look at this door!_

"And why would the police call  _that_  a false alarm?" Steve frowned.

"Whoever Clint and Natasha were after probably has a long reach," Tony spoke with a shrug.

"So we have discovered our archer's location?" Thor sought confirmation.

"It's as good a bet as any," Tony insisted.

"Let's go." Steve strode for the door.

* * *

Clint spit out his fake molar with a sigh. Maybe he just wasn't meant to have a tooth there. He raised weary eyes to Fourie, who looked incredibly pleased with himself.

"I've got a special treat planned for you, Hawkeye," Fourie hissed, nodding at one of his men. A tall well muscled man moved to Clint's side and started pulling his boots off. Fourie caught a thin wooden cane another of his men tossed to him and Clint rolled his eyes heavenward briefly.

He'd only had his feet caned once before in his life and it had been one of the more painful experiences of his extensive background in getting tortured. He'd had to wear walking casts for weeks after that experience and it had still taken him a while before he could walk normally again.

Muscle man pulled Clint's legs up, holding his ankles together and exposing the tender soles of his feet. Clint met Natasha's eyes and she silently offered whatever comfort and strength she could. He flinched but held her gaze when Fourie hit him with the first blow.

Natasha didn't want to watch, didn't want to see the pain that would flash across his eyes for barely a moment before he hid it. But they had always taken comfort in each other's eyes and no matter how much it hurt her to watch, she would never take away the one comfort he had.

When Fourie was finally finished, Clint was shaking, very subtly, but she could see it. If she could see it, then Fourie could see it. The satisfied smile on the man's face when he turned to her made her blood boil. She pulled uselessly against her bindings, itching to wipe that smile off his face.

The bottoms of Clint's feet were bleeding and she asked a question with her eyes. He tilted his head slightly to the left. Bones in his left foot were broken. By some miracle his right remained intact. It was a small mercy.

"You're probably wondering how this plan came into creation, because it is indeed a masterpiece of a plan. The two most notorious assassins in the world and I captured them  _both,"_  Fourie tossed the thin cane back to one of his men and circled behind Natasha's chair.

"Actually, Fourie," Clint sighed, "I don't give a flying fuck how you came up with this." He gave the man a flippant glare, intending to communicate that he thought Fourie wasn't worth his time, even after almost four years. Even if it wasn't true. Even if Fourie was the first person to  _ever_  outsmart both of them at the same time. Fourie  _still_  hadn't won though, not yet. Not while both he and Natasha were breathing.

Fourie's glare darkened and he suddenly grasped a handful of Natasha's hair, yanking her head backwards.

"You should advise your Hawk to be more polite," he growled at her, before releasing her roughly. He smirked at Clint's suddenly darker glare and continued his previous speech, "It took me two years before I found out about her."

Fourie wrapped a strand of Natasha's hair around his finger. She jerked her head away and Fourie chuckled.

"Imagine my surprise. The deadly Black Widow and the demon Hawk, a more fitting match there has never been. It was then that I realized how I could truly have the most ultimate revenge. It's the only reason I didn't come for you seven months ago when you dared to return to my country." He moved around to stand next to Natasha instead of behind her. "I can see why you are drawn to her," Fourie murmured. "Such beauty."

He slowly produced one of Clint's own knives from behind his back. Phil's knife. Clint, if possible, grew even more furious. This was the second time the man had dared to handle one of his weapons. That it was  _that_  weapon, made it even worse.

Clint leveled him with a glare that had made better men crumble. Fourie didn't show a hint of the fear he had nearly four years ago. He'd learned the lessons he'd been lacking back then. Perhaps Clint, himself, had taught one of them.

The South African ran the flat of the blade along Natasha's cheek and she jerked away. Fourie just laughed.

"What do you think, Hawk? Would she still be the Black Widow if that beauty was no more?" He twitched the tip of the blade across Natasha's cheek, drawing a line of blood across her cheekbone. She didn't twitch, just continued to direct her icy glare at Fourie.

"I'm going to kill you, Josia," Clint stated with firm, undaunted confidence that Fourie paused and met his eyes.

"Do you really think you're in a position to threaten  _me_?"

Clint's lips twitched into a smirk.

"Just like I told your dad before I broke his neck," Clint hissed, "I don't  _threaten_."

Fourie's eyes darkened at the reference to his father's death. He strode the two steps to Clint and backhanded him roughly.

"Did I touch a nerve?" Clint laughed, straining to keep cool and collected. He needed to pull Fourie's attention off of Natasha and back to him.

"You  _don't_  talk about my father!" Fourie barked. He pushed the flat of the knife blade against Clint's chin, forcing it up and brushing the skin of his neck with the sharp edge.

"Why? Worried that you haven't lived up to his expectations," he made a show of looking Fourie up and down with his eyes. "Yeah, I'd be worried too."

Fourie's eyes widened and he drew back. Then he drove his fist into Clint's unprotected abdomen three times, hitting harder each time. Clint leaned forward as far as his bonds would let him, coughing and gasping air back into his lungs.

"Fourie," Baskov drew the man's attention to him. "You are wasting time."

Fourie turned his glare on the Russian.

"This is none of your concern," he snapped at Baskov.

"Getting my payment  _is_  my concern," Baskov replied. "And I am growing tired of waiting."

Fourie recognized the impatient and dangerous glint in the Russian's eyes and nodded. He moved towards Clint, yanking his head back once again and pressing the knife into the bruised skin beneath his right eye.

"I will finish what my father started nearly four years ago." He pressed the knife tip a little deeper, drawing blood. "I will cut out your eyes and break every bone in your hands so that you can never fire a bow again. And then you will die  _worthless,_ as you deserve."

Clint didn't breathe, he didn't blink, he just stared into Fourie's cold eyes and tried not to show the fear that he was feeling. He held back a flinch when Fourie spoke again, suddenly.

"But  _wait_ ," Fourie hissed, "first, there's something I want you to see."

He straightened and sheathed the knife at his back. Clint let out a ragged breath and heard Natasha do the same. A glance at her showed she was as on edge as he was.

"You will watch the person you hold most dear  _die_ , just as I did my father." Fourie pulled a gun from a holster hidden under his jacket at his shoulder. He stepped to Natasha's side and pressed the gun against her temple.

She didn't flinch, but her eyes shot to Clint's. She wasn't afraid of dying, but the knowledge that Clint would be following her was almost too much to take. And that Fourie intended to harm him in the most humiliating and debilitating way her Hawk could ever be harmed made it worse. She pulled against her restraints, but nothing budged.

"Fourie," Clint growled, his eyes glued to hers, promising  _something,_ neither of them were sure what.

"Let's count down from ten. That will really draw out the suspense. Don't you think?" Fourie smiled evilly. "Ten."

"You want to kill someone? Kill me. I'm the one that snapped your daddy's neck," Clint spat angrily. "And it was so easy it was pathetic."

Fourie's eye twitched.

"I haven't forgotten, Hawk," Fourie assured. "You  _will_  die too. Nine."

"Fourie," Clint warned darkly.

"Eight."

"You think you'll be able to kill me if you do this?" Clint challenged. "Just ask Baskov what I did to his men when I got here. I  _will_  end you! Do you hear me? You won't be able to stop me."

"Clint." Natasha drew his eyes to hers. She tried to convey with her gaze that everything would be okay. He shook his head. He wouldn't accept this. He couldn't. Not before. Not now. Not ever.

"Seven."

" _Fourie!_ " Clint barked, desperation leaking into his tone.

"Six."

Clint pulled at his restraints with all his strength. Natasha watched blood drip down to the floor behind him. She pulled against her own handcuffs as well.

"Five."

Clint shouted in a mixture of rage and pain as he pulled, every muscle in his body straining painfully.

"Four. I'd start saying my goodbyes, Hawkeye," Fourie suggested with a satisfied smirk.

"Don't do this!" Clint shouted. "Just kill  _me_!"

"Where would be the fun in that?" Fourie glared. "Three."

"Clint, it's okay," Natasha insisted. "Look at me!" she snapped. His storm colored eyes snapped to hers. "You'll be okay." She assured.

He shook his head sharply and pulled again.

"Two."

"NO!" Clint raged, throwing every piece of his being into pulling at his restraints. He thought of Natasha, of the last four years together, of the tenderness they'd shared, of the moments they'd laughed together, bled together, fought together, of the moment in Vietnam they'd given everything to each other. Then he thought of the last few days, of believing she was dead, of the pain that had consumed him, of finding her alive, of seeing her hurt, of what it would mean if he lost her forever.

And quite suddenly the wooden cross bar his handcuffs were fastened to, snapped.

Adrenaline had his mind so focused that he didn't even waste a moment being surprised by his sudden freedom, as slim as it was with his hands still trapped behind his back.

Natasha was surprised though. Her eyes widened when she heard wood crack and then Clint was standing on his battered feet and charging at Fourie. Fourie seemed frozen, shocked at the sudden turn of events. Natasha thought for a moment that Clint would be able to do it, save her as he had so many times over the last seven years. And then he was tackled from behind by one of Fourie's men. He hit the floor with a shout of pain and even with his hands still locked behind his back, he battled the man on top of him.

She watched with bated breath as he managed to get his legs around the man's neck and then twist his body. The entire room heard the bones snap. Clint only got to his knees before Baskov drove his boot into his back, right between the shoulder blades. Clint fell heavily to the floor. Baskov kicked him hard in the side and then pressed his boot into Clint's temple, pinning his head to the floor.

His eyes searched for Natasha's. She had struggled against her own restraints as Clint had fought, but to no avail. Their eyes met and she tried to tell him everything she had and hadn't ever said. His eyes were welling as he stared at her. He'd lost her, then he'd gotten her back, and now he was going to lose her again. He couldn't handle it. He couldn't stop it. He'd tried and he'd failed. He flailed uselessly on the ground and only ended up getting the boot on his head to press down harder.

Fourie expelled a deep breath, overcoming his shock.

"It was an impressive effort, Hawk," he allowed. "But  _worthless_  in the end, as is fitting. Time is up. Say goodbye to your Black Widow."

"You're cowards," Natasha spat at Fourie, then she turned her glare to Baskov. "Both of you."

Fourie whipped his gun roughly against her face, splitting open her lip and bloodying her nose. Clint jerked on the floor, but Baskov held him firmly in place.

"You of all people should know what a person will do if the price is right," Baskov hurled back, his eyes unrepentant.

Fourie pressed the gun firmly against her temple and reached to cock it.

In that moment, the sound of the front door being kicked in drew everyone's attention to the hallway and the stairs beyond it. Clint let out a sharp, half sobbed breath when Fourie lowered the gun slightly. Natasha too blew out a sharp breath, her eyes never leaving Clint's.

"See what's going on," Fourie barked at his and Baskov's men. The group moved out into the hallway and to the top of the stairs. Quite suddenly a blast of energy hit one of them, a red, white, and blue shield cracked into the head of another, and a large hammer crushed one's chest. There was a roar from somewhere below them.

Fourie backed up warily and Baskov drew his side arm, not releasing Clint from his hold.

Several more of the men fell in a similar fashion and then there was a flash of red white and blue at the top of the stairs, a glimpse of hot rod red and gold armor, and a swirl of a red cape. And then all the men were down, either unconscious or dead and Baskov and Fourie were faced with the formidable presence of Captain America, Iron Man, and Thor.

* * *

Steve took in the sight before him. Natasha,  _alive_ , bruised, bleeding, and restrained to a chair. Clint, pressed to the ground by a boot on his temple, looking like he'd gone a round with the Hulk. And for once, Steve didn't feel like talking. He didn't feel like finding a reasonable solution. He stepped forward, drew back his shield and then let it fly.

It slammed into the throat of the man subduing Clint, killing him and sending him tumbling to the ground.

Tony had recognized Josia Fourie immediately. He'd spent more time than he cared to admit studying the face of the man that put _Clint Barton_  on edge. The only man that had ever survived an encounter with the archer assassin. He'd fired a blast of energy before he'd even had time to think. Fourie fell back, stunned, but not dead. Tony didn't know if he'd be forgiven for taking that right as his own, no matter how pissed he was.

Then he moved to Clint's side while Steve moved to Natasha. Thor moved to stand guard of Fourie, kicking the man's gun away. There was another roar from below, but it was ignored.

"Clint?" Tony called as he raised the face mask on his suit. The archer was breathing heavily and hadn't moved.

"The cuffs," Clint gasped.

"What?" Tony frowned. He saw the handcuffs in the next second.

"Get the damned cuffs off of me!" Clint snapped, his eyes still pinned on Natasha's.

"Just break them!" Natasha barked at Steve who was eyeing her handcuffs in indecision. He obediently took each of her wrists in a hand and pulled them apart. The metal links of the handcuffs snapped apart easily. Tony was already doing the same for Clint and breaking the rope that held the archer's biceps bound.

Natasha leaned over, ripping at the duct tape on one of her ankles. Steve obligingly freed the other and then she was out of the chair in a flash. She went to her knees in front of Clint and before Tony could help the man up, she was pulling him up by his shoulders and he was wrapping an arm around her waist, dragging her to him.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and his arms locked around her back. He buried his face in her neck and let out a ragged, half sobbing breath.

"Все хорошо," _(It's okay)_  she whispered in Russian to keep the moment solely between them. "С нами все хорошо,"  _(We're okay)_ she assured softly. She gently wove on hand into the hair at the back of his head and stroking the back of his neck. His arms tightened around her. He mumbled something against her neck and she was barely able to decipher it.

"Я потерял тебя."  _(I lost you.)_

"Нет,"  _(No)_  she whispered fiercely. "Ты никогда меня не потеряешь. Я твоя, помнишь? Твой огненный паук. Навсегда."  _(You will never lose me. I'm yours, remember? Your fiery spider. Forever.)_

Clint didn't answer and she gently drew his head back to meet his eyes.

"Что бы ни случилось, никто никогда не отнимет меня у тебя. А тебя - у меня."  _(No matter what, no one will ever truly take me from you. Or you from me)_ she promised. "Я твоя, а ты мой.  _Навечно_." _(I am yours and you are mine. **Always**.) **  
**_

"Навечно." _(Always.)_  He repeated softly. She nodded and ran her hand gently over his bruised and bleeding cheek.

"Мой сокол,"  _(My hawk)_  she purred quietly, kissing him gently and then pulling him to her again. He buried his face in her neck and hugged her as tightly as he could manage. She was real. She was alive. He could feel the warmth of her body against his. The ache in his heart that had started to ease when he'd heard her voice, faded even further.

Tony watched with uncharacteristic reverence. He didn't know what they were saying, but part of him didn't want to. This was a moment nobody else needed to be part of. After everything that had happened, it was obvious to him that Clint was a step away from coming apart. And while they may have become the closest of friends over the last six months, he knew Natasha was the only one that would be able to keep him together.

Steve watched while battling a wave of his own overwhelming emotion. He'd known how Clint felt about Natasha from almost the beginning. Clint had told him about the deep relationship between the two assassins on the roof of Stark Tower one night while Clint was in the middle of recovering from loosing Coulson, battling his guilt over what had happened with Loki, and facing an old sniper teammate hell bent on revenge. He'd told him about the thing between he and Natasha and he'd smiled as he talked about it. He'd smiled even though everything else in his life had seemed like it was spinning out of control. He'd smiled because of her. And that's how Steve had known that loosing Natasha would destroy him. But she hadn't been lost. Clint had found her only to nearly lose her again. He could imagine how Clint felt, because he  _had_  lost his love. He'd lost Peggy a lifetime ago and it still hurt so deeply sometimes it was hard to breathe.

Thor watched with seething rage in his eyes. He turned his glare on what he assumed was the man that had caused all of this pain and suffering. It took every ounce of his self control to not destroy the Midgardian with his hammer. Clint Barton had proven himself unshakeable many times over. He'd faced the risk of death unflinchingly even though he was only mortal. He was the strongest human Thor had ever known. And to see him now, shaken and nearly, but not quite, broken, brought rage to Thor's heart.

Bruce ventured into the room quietly, taking in the scene with glowing green eyes. Steve quirked an eyebrow at him in question and he nodded. He had the other guy under control for the moment. It had been a struggle from the moment they'd stepped into the townhouse. It was as if the Hulk inside of him had sensed the pain of his friends and had nearly broken free. While that would surely have ended the fight more quickly, it would have put the rest of the team, including Clint in danger. So he'd curled onto his knees in the living room and fought against his darker half until they both sensed the danger had passed. Then he'd ventured up the stairs to find their dead Black Widow alive and their Hawk holding on to her like she was the only thing keeping him from coming apart. He'd found Tony watching them with what he could only describe as respectful reverence and Steve watching with unbridled pain and emotion. He'd found Thor glaring so hatefully at a man collapsed against the wall that it was a wonder the Asgardian hadn't already delivered a killing blow.

Their team. Together, not quite in one piece, but alive and breathing. That would have to be enough for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 9
> 
> Only one more chapter now :) Fourie gets what he's got coming to him.
> 
> Here's your last preview!
> 
> "You saying you'd miss me, Tony?"
> 
> "No," Tony denied firmly. Then he shrugged, "But I have gone to all the trouble to get you broken in. It'd be a bitch to replace you now."
> 
> Clint snorted a soft laugh and nodded.


	10. In Your Name, I Find Meaning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Here's the last chapter!
> 
> The song for this story's chapter titles was "Broken" by Lifehouse
> 
> Enjoy!

_Revenge proves its own executioner._

**_John Ford_ **

* * *

It took several minutes before Clint felt like he had himself pulled together enough to draw away from Natasha. Part of him never wanted to pull away from her again, just wanted to stay wrapped up in her arms and never let go. Another part of him, the thoroughly pissed part, wanted to settle this with Fourie, once and for all.

So he pulled away and rested his forehead wearily against hers taking a moment to gather the strength to stand. She stroked the side of his jaw gently and waited patiently. He brought his left hand up to frame her face briefly. The terror that he was going to watch her die was still echoing loudly inside him. He saw his hand was shaking and knew it had nothing to do with his physical injuries. He took in a deep breath and pulled back completely, bracing his hand on her shoulder to aid his rise. Her hands came to his elbow and braced against his side to help balance him.

He drew up, painfully, to his full height and Natasha rose beside him. He stared at Fourie and Fourie stared back. He took a measured step forward, barely putting any pressure on his left foot before dragging it with him. Natasha wordlessly shifted and pulled his left arm over her shoulder, anchoring herself to his side and preventing him from having to put too much pressure on his damaged foot.

"If you had just  _killed_  me, I would have understood. Understood more than you know," Clint stated roughly as he moved closer to his prey. "But this?" he gestured vaguely behind him and shook his head.

"I wanted you to suffer."

"Yeah, well mission accomplished," Clint allowed. "But there was a major flaw to your plan."

"And what was that?" Fourie spat, shifting. He froze when Thor raised his hammer slightly.

"The unexpected."

Fourie frowned and Clint went on.

"You had to have known that if you did this, you'd better make  _damn_  sure I was dead when it was all over," he explained. "But you made a fatal mistake when you didn't account for the  _unexpected_. It's a lesson I learned when I killed your father all those years ago. You have to plan for  _everything_ , even a little kid running out of a house and drawing attention to your position. Even a team of superheroes entirely too persistent for their own damn good."

The other four men all straightened a little, looking pleased with themselves.

"Everything comes down to the unexpected." Clint crouched down with a wince to retrieve Fourie's abandon gun and then moved to stand directly in front of him. "Give us the room, boys."

Thor nodded, squeezing Clint's shoulder gently before moving towards the door. Tony was ready to protest, not appreciating being sent out like a child. Steve stopped him though with a hand to his chest plate, gently propelling him back towards the door.

"Clint needs to do this and can you blame him for not wanting an audience?" Steve whispered. He looked over his shoulder at the archer. He was shocked at the hot anger he, himself, felt and his own desire to see Fourie out of their lives for good.

Bruce followed without complaint, but the doctor's eyes were watching Clint in deep concern. He looked about ready to collapse and standing on what looked like a broken foot wasn't the best way to keep that from happening. But he moved out of the room anyway, because some things took priority.

Natasha didn't leave. Instead she glared down at Fourie as only the Black Widow could. Without warning, she pulled away from Clint, snapped a kick into Fourie's jaw and lunged forward. She wrapped a hand around his neck and pulled him up, roughly slamming him back against the wall. Then, while he was still gasping in shock, she reached behind him and pulled Clint's knife from his behind his back.

"This doesn't belong to you," she hissed, twitching the knife across his cheek as he'd done to her. Then she released his throat only to punch him solidly in the nose. Fourie crumbled and Natasha returned to Clint's side looking more satisfied than she had a moment ago. For the archer's part, he just smiled slightly. That was his fiery spider, all venom and even more bite _._  He reached to cock the gun, wincing as he did so. Then he leveled it at Fourie's head.

"I always knew it would come down to something like this, Fourie," Clint stated darkly. "One of us holding a gun on the other. You shouldn't have brought anyone else into it." He shouldn't have brought  _her_  into it.

Fourie glared hatefully at him.

"You killed my father,  _duiwel._ You deserved to suffer."  _(demon)_

"Maybe," Clint allowed. "But for sins before we even met, not for killing your father. The man only got what he brought on himself with the choices he made."

Fourie's eyes darkened.

"Life is full of choices,  _duiwel,_ and my only regret is that I've failed to carry out mine. I pray that death finds you swiftly."

Clint nodded, unsurprised by the level of hate in the man's tone.

"This ends now, Fourie," he stated quietly and without further prompting fired once. Fourie's head snapped back, the bullet tearing a hole between his eyes. Clint ejected the magazine and cleared the chamber before tossing it aside. It seemed anticlimactic somehow for Fourie to be finally dead. Clint wasn't sure how he felt about it. He had never and would never regret killing Abrehem Fourie. The man had been a murderer and a terrorist. In many ways, Josia had become a worse version of his father. But a small part of Clint, the part of him that still grieved for Phil, understood the man's hate. He would always hate Loki for the same reason. He wasn't lying when he said he would have understood if Fourie had just come after  _him_. But he'd come after Natasha. And that would never, and could never, be forgiven.

"It's over," Natasha whispered gently, pulling him away from the body.  _Finally it's over._  Natasha had done her own share of worrying over Fourie for the past three years and eight months. She'd worried that Clint would leave on a mission and never come back because of the man. She'd worried more after Dubai, even more after Melbourne, and still more after Tokyo. But Clint had always come back to her. Fourie had never won. And he hadn't won now.

He leaned heavily on her and together they made their way to the door. Clint made it to the doorway. He glanced around at his stupid, stubborn team that had apparently refused to let him go off to die in peace.

_Thank God for that._

It was his last thought as the world faded to black.

* * *

When reality started to fuzzily make its presence known again, the first thing Clint was aware of was her voice. It was there, explaining something about a safe house.

"Well it's a good thing you guys have a back up. Bird boy trashed the other one."

Tony.

Clint's other senses started to return and he became aware of two strong arms, one under his knees the other hooked under his shoulders. He felt a sway and a slight shifting of the arms. He was being carried and whoever was doing the carrying was walking at the moment. Before he could let himself be horrified that he was being carried like a child, the pain rushed in. His back was giving new meaning to the terms throbbing and ache. His head was pounding and while both of his feet hurt, his left felt like it had been stomped on by the Hulk. His wrists were stiff and swollen and he could still feel the bite of the handcuffs, his left wrist particularly was aching fiercely.

He heard the metal grating of his and Natasha's elevator slid up and then more swaying. It wasn't until the grating slid closed that he found the inclination to open his eyes. His field of vision was filled with red white and blue.

Cap. That explained the strong arms.

"Clint?" Trust Natasha to zero in the moment he returned to the waking world.

"Present," he groaned, shifting. "Put me down."

Steve hesitated, but a nod from Natasha had him easing the archer's feet the ground. He didn't give up his support on the man's back, though, and was glad he didn't when Clint wavered heavily.

"You shouldn't be walking on those feet," Bruce's calm voice drew Clint's eyes to the left corner of the elevator.

"Walked with worse."

"I really wish you wouldn't say things like that," Tony grumbled, lifting the grating when the elevator came to a stop. Natasha and Tony led the way out of the elevator and Thor filled in on Clint's side opposite Steve. Together, the two large men helped him hobble out of the elevator.

"That chair looks good to me," Clint hissed, cursing his own stubbornness as they made their slow progress. Bruce slid around them, pulled out the chair and accepted the large first aid kit Natasha produced from a cabinet.

Clint all but collapsed into the chair.

"Check Tasha out first."

The entire room stared at him.

"What?"

"You're kidding, right?" Tony scoffed.

"Clint, not now," Natasha scolded with a slight glare.

"You're nose might be broken and that isn't a  _little_  shiner you've got on your temple. You need to get checked out."

Part of Clint knew he was being irrational, but another part, the part that was nothing but frayed nerves, battered emotions, and raging protective instincts, didn't feel like listening to the rational part of his brain. In fact it was very firmly telling the rational part of his brain to go to hell.

"You can't even stand on your own, Clint," Bruce pointed out calmly.

"I don't care."

"Archer," Thor tried to intercede.

"I'll be fine!" Clint snapped at him.

"You're barely even managing to stay conscious," Steve added.

"That doesn't matter! Just make sure she's okay!"

"Clint!" Natasha snapped, leaning down so they were almost nose to nose. "You are going to shut the hell up and let Bruce take care of you. Understood?" Her eyes were fiery and his voice was hard, the kind of hard that told him to put up and shut up or there would be consequences.

Clint blinked, the rational part of his brain saying 'I told you so' in an annoying sing-song voice. But maybe that was just his concussion.

He nodded at her and her eyes softened and when she spoke again her voice was gentle.

"I promise he'll check me over as soon as he's done, okay?"

He nodded again. Natasha drew back and nodded at Bruce to get to it.

"I've got sixteen missed calls from Pepper. I knew I was going to regret getting the international plan. I'll be back," Tony tossed over his shoulder as he headed for the roof door. He threw one more worried glance at the archer and the spider before he disappeared outside.

"I must contact my Jane. She was most concerned with our recent events and I must put her mind at ease," Thor fished Tony's laptop out of the man's bag and pulled it open, following the precise instructions the genius had taught him to write what was called an "e-mail".

Steve just watched, alternating between hovering over Bruce's shoulder and pacing to the other side of the room and back.

Natasha and Bruce helped Clint carefully peel off his t-shirt, revealing harsh dark bruising in large patches on his back and abdomen.

"Jesus," Bruce breathed, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath when his other half threatened to break free at the sight.

"That bad?" Clint huffed wearily.

"It's not great," Natasha replied calmly, reaching around him to pull a tube of liniment that would help with the swelling and the ache. "I've got this, Bruce, why don't you take a look at his feet."

Bruce nodded and moved around him and crouched, gently pulling Clint's left foot up by a gentle hold on the calf. Clint thought he might have lost time, because the next thing he was aware of was Bruce calling his name with the type of tone that indicated it wasn't the first time.

Clint blinked wearily and raised his eyes to the doctor.

"Without an x-ray I can't tell how bad the damage is, but you're going to need a cast. I'll cushion and wrap it for now and we'll let the SHIELD doctors handle it when we get back."

Clint nodded wordlessly, the corners of his eyes tightening when Natasha's gentle hands rubbed a particularly tender spot on his back. He didn't complain though. He just continued to sit in an exhausted silence as Bruce carefully bandaged the cuts on the soles of his feet and then folded a pillow around his broken foot and wrapped it in place with an ACE bandage.

"Anything else down here I need to look at?"

"Left knee," Clint answered blankly.

"How's it looking back there, Natasha?" Bruce asked quietly, gently easing Clint's cargo pant leg up past his knee. He carefully started testing the range of motion Clint had with his knee and keeping a sharp eye on the archer's face for any indication of pain.

"Pretty severe bruising," she sighed. "What did they hit you with?" she asked Clint softly.

For a moment Clint didn't respond and they almost thought he wasn't going to. Whatever haze his mind kept falling into seemed to suddenly disperse and he blinked at Bruce. Then he tossed a glance over his shoulder at Natasha and answered.

"Crowbar," he stated dispassionately, as if he wasn't particularly concerned about it one way or another. Natasha's eyes narrowed slightly at him in concern.

Bruce had to breathe deeply again and close his eyes for a moment, forcing the other guy and his oddly passionate protective instincts concerning the archer down once more. He probed the knee gently.

"Nothing seems broken and your range of motion is good so I don't think there's any severe damage, we'll put some ice on it for the swelling and get an MRI when we get back," he decided. "Let's see about those wrists."

Clint unfolded his arms from where his left had been cradled by his right against his abdomen and rested his forearms on the table, holding his damaged wrists at an upward angle.

"We need to get those handcuffs off," Bruce frowned, eyeing the bloody mess that Clint had made of his wrists.

"I can do that," Natasha volunteered. "Steve, there's a set of handcuff keys taped under the right corner of that couch."

Steve retrieved them in record time and stood uneasily behind Natasha as she leaned over Clint's wrists. Very carefully she unlocked the left after trying only two keys and eased the metal away from the ravaged skin. Clint hissed lowly and flinched, but didn't pull away. Natasha tossed the first half to his handcuffs onto the table and Bruce immediately started working on cleaning up the now freed limb. As he cleaned away the blood, dark bruising become more noticeable and he frowned.

"Crowbar again?" Bruce guessed.

Clint nodded.

"I don't know  _how_ , but nothing feels broken, can you move it?"

Clint obediently flexed and extended his wrist in every direction. It hurt, but not a broken bone kind of hurt. He knew the difference.

"Once I get this wrist bandaged we'll put together a splint for you until we can be sure."

Natasha freed his other wrist and Bruce quickly and carefully bandaged the first one and then set about cleaning and bandaging the second. Meanwhile Steve carefully helped Natasha get her own broken handcuffs off. Clint noticed for the first time that her wrists were nearly as bloody as his. Of course she'd have been fighting right along with him. His eyes flicked up to meet hers and her own gaze confirmed his suspicion.

Bruce finished his work and drew back looking at him critically.

"Would you be honest if I asked you how your abdomen felt?"

"It hurts," Clint stated simply, answering the implied question. "But I don't think anything's broken or busted."

"Can I see for myself?" Bruce asked politely.

In response, Clint straightened his posture, stifling a groan as his stiffening muscles protested. Natasha's hands were suddenly on his shoulders, helping him sit straight and offering a measure of comfort.

Clint's whole back was screaming in protest, pulsing pain stemming from the multiple places the crowbar had impacted his flesh. Then Bruce's probing fingers started pressing down on bruises on his abdomen and he suddenly wanted throw up. Except he hadn't eaten in days and his body was running on nothing but stubbornness, so he managed to hide his urge to vomit under a thick swallow.

Bruce's eyes flew to his, questioning.

"I'm fine," Clint insisted.

Bruce returned to his examination.

"Nothing seems broken and there aren't any signs of internal bleeding. Which is frankly shocking."

Clint took that as his cue to relax his posture.

"Now for the fun part."

"There's a fun part?" Clint grumbled.

Bruce raised a pen light.

"I'll save you the trouble, Doc. I'm well and truly concussed. All that's gonna do is make me wanna hurl."

Bruce inclined his head in acceptance and reached to the first aid kit. He pulled out a suture kit.

"Let's get to it," Bruce sighed, starting the careful process of cleaning Clint's face of all the blood that had dried in various places. "You're next," he tossed at Natasha, who simply nodded.

Bruce had no sooner tied off his last stitch to a deep cut at Clint's hair line than Clint was glaring Natasha into a chair. She sat without complaint and allowed Bruce to treat the deep cut on her temple. She too admitted that while she  _had_  been concussed at one point, it was two days ago now. She had a killer headache, but otherwise felt as well as could be expected. Clint watched like the hawk he was named for as Bruce stitched the cut on her cheek and then cleaned and bandaged her wrists. Finally, he set about to check her nose.

"It doesn't seem to be broken, but you've already got some swelling setting in pretty seriously, so we'll be able to tell better when that goes down."

Natasha nodded, not concerned. She was helping Clint back into his shirt and Bruce was sizing one of the various splints the assassins kept stocked in their first aid kit when Tony came back inside.

"Jet's fueled and ready to go."

"We're good to go," Bruce assured, easing Clint's wrist into the splint and carefully fastened it in place, careful not to tighten it too much in deference to his damaged wrists. He started packing away the first aid kit as Natasha rose and moved to Clint's side. She and Steve braced either side of him and helped him stand.

"Let's go home," Steve suggested with a weary sigh.

* * *

Clint was staring pensively out the window of the Stark jet; Natasha curled up asleep in the seat beside him, when Tony plopped down across from her as Clint's pillow wrapped foot was currently propped on the seat directly across from him. Natasha had asked Clint with a silent look if he was ready to talk about what had happened and he'd told her with an equally silent look that he was decidedly  _not._ She'd accepted his response, for now at least, and dropped into an exhausted sleep.

Tony apparently hadn't bothered to ask if he wanted to talk. Clint turned his eyes to regard the genius with a sigh.

"You don't call, you don't write, I was starting to think you didn't care about me at all and that what we had was nothing. Then I found out you were being detained against your will by a lunatic with a penchant for revenge, being tortured, and forced to watch Stalin over there be nearly killed. So I suppose I can forgive you in time."

Clint smiled and shook his head in amusement. Tony was wildly inappropriate at times, flat out rude at others, but he always made Clint smile.

"How the hell did you find me?" He was horrified by how exhausted and beaten down he sounded. If Tony noticed, he didn't comment.

"Rainy Day Account," Stark stated easily.

"You found it." Clint sighed and nodded in sudden understanding. Of course Tony found it. He was Tony. And  _he_  had lectured Fourie about the unexpected. Maybe a small part of him had  _wanted_  Tony to find him.

"It wasn't easy," Tony admitted. "Neither was finding you after we got here."

"But you did it."

"Yeah, we did."

They stared at each other silently for a long moment.

"I get it," Tony stated quietly, his eyes flashing briefly to Natasha and then back to Clint. "I don't like it, but I get it. Next time don't just take off all half cocked on a rampant revenge kick. It was highly stressful for everyone involved, especially me."

"Especially you?"

"Do you realize how much money I would have wasted on all the crap I've been designing for you?" Tony huffed. "And what use is it having an IronHawk theme song if all that's left is the Iron."

"I wasn't thinking about anything or anybody else, Tony," Clint pointed out at the same time his mind processed the "IronHawk" Tony had slipped in there. His eyebrow arched.

"I know," Tony allowed, "But you've got a team now and people that would miss you if you were gone."

Clint smiled despite himself.

"You saying you'd miss me, Tony?"

"No," Tony denied firmly. Then he shrugged, "But I  _have_  gone to all the trouble to get you broken in. It'd be a bitch to replace you now."

Clint snorted a soft laugh and nodded.

"Understood."

Tony nodded, more seriously than usual, and stood. He reached to pat Clint's shoulder.

"You gotta stop forgetting you have people in your corner now," He instructed seriously, then smiled, "got it,  _Katniss?_ "

Clint rolled his eyes and couldn't help but smile.

"So...IronHawk?"

"Less of a mouthful don't you think?"

"I like HawkMan better."

"Really?" Tony frowned sourly.

"No, not really," Clint laughed. "IronHawk theme song it is."

"About time you two settled that," Natasha murmured sleepily.

* * *

It was Steve that approached him next. Natasha was on the phone with SHIELD at the back of the plane, no doubt getting Fury to take her off the KIA list and convincing him to get the copy of her file that she knew would have kept and get to work putting her back in the system. Clint wasn't as ready to talk to SHIELD yet and remained slouched in his seat with his wrapped foot propped up on the chair in front of him. Steve dropped down next to him with a sigh.

"Something on your mind, Cap?" Clint asked knowingly.

"How are you feeling?" Steve deflected.

"Like shit. How about you?"

"Worried," Steve admitted.

"That's your specialty, Cap," Clint smirked.

Steve smiled sheepishly.

"Just say what you came over here to say, Steve," Clint advised quietly. "Something about how I shouldn't have gone off by myself, shouldn't have gone in without a plan, should have included all of you." He was ashamed that his tone had grown defensive towards the end.

Steve just looked saddened.

"That's not what I was going to say. Though they're all good points." The Captain sighed deeply. "I was just going to tell you that I understand how it must have felt when Fury told you she was dead and I get it."

Clint looked sharply at him, seeing the sincerity and honesty in his friend's eyes.

"But as much as you can't lose her, Clint; and I  _know_  now that you can't lose her;  _we_  can't lose you."

"What are you talking about?" Clint's brow furrowed in confusion.

"You don't even know, do you? How much you mean to this team."

Clint frowned.

"Clint, you're the only one on the team that has connected in some way to  _everyone_ else. And you spent the first six months  _not talking_  to anyone. Do you know how amazing that is?"

"Steve…" Clint shook his head, ready to deny it.

"You know it's true," Steve argued. "You and Thor have this strange camaraderie that none of the rest of us even get close to. The Hulk is irrationally protective of you, something  _I_  know for a fact. Even Bruce can't really explain it. You're the only one who can  _stand_  Tony for more than a few minutes at time. And me, we've walked a lot of the same paths, just in different lifetimes."

Clint stared at him eyes deeply thoughtful as he considered what Steve was telling him.

"Whether you or any of the rest of them realize it, we need you. We need you for what you are to each of us. And when we realized what had happened, what you'd come here to do," Steve shook his head as if he didn't want to think about it, "all I felt was fear. Fear that we wouldn't get here in time."

Clint was silent for several moments, picking at the splint on his left wrist.

"I didn't think about you guys," he finally admitted. "I didn't think about how all of this would affect any of you and I should have." He sighed deeply, raising his eyes to meet Steve's crystal blue gaze. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Steve shook his head. "We all know why you did it and whether we agree or not, we get it. Just remember what I just told you next time you start deciding you don't have anything else to live for and know that you aren't expendable and you aren't replaceable, not ever, not to us."

Clint nodded seriously, a swell of emotion keeping him from replying. He'd only had one other person in his life tell him he wasn't expendable. Phil Coulson had practically yelled it at him after Croatia. He'd never had any doubt that his handler cared about him, but if he had, that conversation would have banished it. He knew Natasha felt the same, but she'd never said it. She'd never needed to. She said it with everything she did.

He should have known the team would have felt the same. He should have known, after  _everything_ , that they valued him for so much more than his aim. He should have known, but he hadn't. Hadn't even considered it. And he was ashamed.

He met Steve's eyes seriously and nodded.

That was enough for Steve, because he nodded back and stood. As the Captain moved away, Clint glanced at Bruce, wondering if he was going to get a stern talking to from him as well. But Bruce was sleeping soundly, his seat pushed back as far as it could go. Clint peeked over his chair at Thor, who was playing a game on the iPad Tony had given him. For once it seemed as if the Asgardian was embracing the technology instead of battling it. The thunder god glanced up at him and smiled.

"How do you fare, noble archer?"

"Been better." Clint shrugged. "Been worse, though, so I can't complain."

"It does my heart well to see your strength returning."

"I don't know if I'd go that far," Clint chuckled. "I haven't even been properly treated yet and I still feel like shit."

"It is not the strength of body to which I was referring, Clint Barton."

Clint blinked in surprise and Thor smiled knowingly. Natasha returned to her seat with a sigh and he glanced at her before looking back at Thor.

"Aye, your strength is returning very swiftly indeed."

With that Thor lowered his eyes back to his iPad.

Clint's eyes narrowed when he heard the large man whisper something fiercely at the screen.

"Feel the wrath of my birds, you vile swine."

Clint turned back quickly, choking back hysterical laughter.

* * *

Pepper met them at the airport and nearly took Natasha to the ground with the hug she wrapped her in. Just when the assassin was sure Pepper was never going to let her go, the CEO spotted Clint being transferred to a wheelchair. The archer was arguing, fiercely, that he could walk to the car on his own.

Pepper released Natasha so abruptly that the assassin stumbled back a step and made a beeline for the second assassin in the group. Steve was holding Clint in the chair with one hand on his shoulder, but by the annoyed look on the archer's face, some of the Captain's super strength was being put into play. Bruce was standing in front of him with stern scowl on his face.

"Clint, if you walk on that foot, you risk doing more damage than has already been done," Bruce was scolding.

"I'm can make it twenty feet to the car," Clint defended. "I don't need a damn wheelchair!"

He tried to stand up, but ended up just straining uselessly against Steve's restraining hand.

"Oh my god, Clint!" Pepper rushed to his side, her eyes wide with worry. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Clint insisted. "These guys are just being overly cautious."

"You have broken bones in that foot," Bruce interjected forcefully. "I'm not letting you do more damage just because you're so god damned stubborn."

Clint blinked and swore that Banner had just channeled Phil. No one had mother henned him when he was injured like Phil. Nobody until Bruce. He stopped fighting Steve's hold and stared at the doctor.

"What?" Bruce demanded.

Clint shook his head.

"Nothing."

Bruce eyed him suspiciously, as if he expected him to spring suddenly from the chair and yell 'fooled ya!'. Steve looked equally wary.

"If Cupid is done throwing his temper tantrum, we can get this show on the road," Tony spoke up from where he'd been watching with silent amusement.

Clint glared at him.

Tony just smiled, took Pepper's hand and headed towards the car.

Natasha appeared next to Clint and nudged Steve aside to take the handles of the wheel chair. Steve stepped aside with good grace and walked with Bruce and Thor to the car.

"It's good to be home," Natasha murmured softly as she started pushing Clint after them.

"Hell yeah it is."

* * *

Clint looked up when Bruce slipped into his room in the infirmary. Natasha looked up as well and silently stood, sliding out of the room.

"Doc," Clint greeted warily. He'd been wondering when Bruce would take his turn at 'the talk'.

"It was weak."

Clint's eyebrows rose dramatically.

"What'd you say?"

"I said it was weak, what you did," Bruce explained as he stayed near the door. "You think you're the only one that's felt hopeless? Like they've got nothing left to live for?"

"Bruce..." Clint shook his head, warning the doctor off of this path.

"I know what she means to you. I know that life without her didn't seem worth living. But what you did was weak. It was the easy way out."

" _Easy?_ " Clint scoffed.

"You gave up!" Bruce snapped, moving closer so Clint could see his glowing green eyes. As usual, the archer didn't even flinch. "You think I don't know what it feels like to have  _nothing_  left? You think I don't know what it means to be hopeless?"

"Bruce, you don't know..."

"I do  _know_ , Clint. I know better than anybody else ever could. And almost a year and a half ago, I wanted to give up too. And then the  _craziest_  thing happened. An alien  _god_  attacked earth and I wasn't allowed to hide anymore. I came out of the darkness I'd been cowering in and met  _you_ , all of you. The Avengers gave me  _hope_  again.  _You_  gave me hope, Clint. Because before you, I'd never seen the Hulk as anything other than a method of destruction. You made him a protector."

Bruce paused, breathing heavily. Clint stared at him.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Bruce," Clint admitted lowly.

"I don't want you to say anything. I want you to understand."

"Understand  _what?_ "

"That we could have given you the same hope you all gave me. But you  _chose_  not to see that and that was  _weak_."

"I'm  _not_  weak!" Clint argued with sudden intensity. He'd promised himself when he was seven and he'd cried for the last time in his life until three days ago, that he would never be weak again. He'd promised himself again after Phil saved him from a life of killing for hire.

"No," Bruce agreed, "you're  _not._ _"_

And that's what it came down to, wasn't it. Clint wasn't weak. He was strong, he'd always been strong. Bruce was telling him that he was strong enough to have survived losing her. Clint stared at him, knowing in his heart that it was true.

"Just because I could have survived it, didn't mean I wanted to."

And he hadn't wanted to. He'd wanted to be with Natasha, even if it meant following her into death.

"I didn't want to live anymore if it meant I had to live without her."

Bruce nodded in understanding.

"Would she have wanted to be the reason you died?"

Clint frowned.

"Would Agent Coulson have wanted that for you?"

Clint looked away. Bruce wasn't pulling any punches today.

"Think about that, and next time you want to leave it all behind, think of who you're leaving. Think of what it means for the people already gone. Being strong isn't running off on a suicide mission for revenge. Being strong is going on, it's fighting, even when it's the last thing in the world you want to do."

Clint could only stare as Bruce turned to leave the room. He knew it was unreasonable to ask Clint to go on without Natasha if it ever came to this again. Knew he was asking the archer to do what he never would have been able to do, but he had to ask. He had to ask because they needed Clint. All of them needed his strength. Because Clint was a fighter. He'd been fighting his whole life. And as long as he, their painfully human, miraculously strong, archer was fighting, they knew they could keep fighting too.

* * *

"I swear to God, Clint, if you poke me with that thing one more time…" Tony let the threat trail off uselessly and turned his attention back to his laptop with a huff. It had been two days since they'd returned to the New York. Only five since this whole thing had started and Clint was being released to go back to the tower provided that he rest with a capital "R". The entire team intended to see that he did so.

Natasha was due back any minute from a meeting with Fury to be present for Clint's official release. Clint was chomping at the bit, sitting up in his bed, and passing the time poking Tony with one of his crutches that he technically wasn't supposed to have yet since both of his feet were still out of commission.

"You'll what?" Clint scoffed.

Tony glared at him, but couldn't find it in himself to actually be annoyed. Not while Clint still looked so terrible. His left foot and calf was in a fiberglass cast wrapped in deep purple. His other foot was bandaged, but apparently healing quickly. His wrists were still wrapped in thick gauze, with his left still showcasing dark bruising. The bruises on his face had darkened to a sickening shade of black and purple, but the swelling had gone down dramatically. He moved stiffly, the beating his back had taken making the muscles sore and tight. But he was smiling and he was poking Tony with a crutch.

The billionaire figured it was better than the alternative, so he allowed it.

He was saved from having to admit any of that when Natasha strolled into the room.

"Everything squared away?"

"I'm officially back in the system. Ready to bust out of here and go home?" she asked with a warm smile.

"God, yes."

"I saw your doctor headed this way," she revealed, moving to gather the few belongings they'd accumulated over the last few days. Tony started packing away his laptop with one hand and typing on his phone with the other, letting the rest of the team know Clint was about to get cleared.

The doctor looked honestly surprised that Clint was still in the room when he pushed his way in. He blinked blankly for a moment and Clint smirked. He  _did_ have a reputation for wandering out of the infirmary.

After that the process was fairly smooth. Clint was forced, with great complaint, into a wheelchair. It had taken a threatening look from Natasha before he put up and shut up. He insisted he control the thing himself, and Natasha chose not to fight that battle. Instead, she carried his crutches without complaint.

As Clint rolled himself into the main area of SHIELD, he tossed a glance up at Fury's office out of habit. He was marginally surprised to see the man himself standing and looking over the railing that ran along the half hallway in front of his office. Fury looked right at him and nodded once. Clint nodded back. And that was that. The air was clear between them. Clint knew there wouldn't have to be any awkward conversation about him  _not_  quitting SHIELD and there would be no official report for what had happened. SHIELD hadn't sanctioned the mission so it was none of their damn business what went down.

That was Clint's opinion at least.

Fury may have sicked him on Baskov like a pit bull in a dog fight, but Clint would have found the man eventually anyway. Fury had known Clint well enough to know that and he'd done everything he could to try and make sure the archer was successful. He'd given him every advantage he could without overtly defying the rules and protocols.

Clint knew that for Fury, that meant he gave a damn.

* * *

"You shouldn't be using those yet."

"Tasha, I was going crazy in that damn chair all day. I'm fine, I swear," Clint insisted as they made their way to the kitchen.

"Fine," she all but snapped. Clint knew she was just worried so he smiled at the Russian insult she hissed under her breath. It felt almost normal again.

She let Clint crutch his way into the kitchen first and frowned when he stopped suddenly. She slid around him to see what the holdup was and froze.

The kitchen table was covered in delicious smelling French food and the entire team stood behind the table looking incredibly pleased with themselves.

"What the hell?" Clint demanded.

"Well, we figure you two didn't get to properly celebrate your seven years," Steve started.

"And since Gimpy isn't  _supposed_  to be making his way around on those crutches we didn't think he'd be up to cooking yet," Tony added.

"We did not desire for you to await this celebration any longer, so we have taken the burden upon ourselves," Thor put in next.

"You guys have been through a lot and we thought you deserved a night to yourselves," Bruce added quietly.

"So  _we_  are all going out to dinner and  _you_  two are staying here and having your seven year anniversary properly," Pepper finished.

Natasha and Clint just stared at them.

"You said you met in France, so we figured French cuisine would be appropriate," Steve pointed out nervously.

"Don't look so worried, Crutchy, we didn't cook it, we ordered in," Tony assured with an eye roll.

Clint blinked and then smiled. Natasha quickly followed suit with a smile of her own.

"Guys…" Clint started.

"You don't have to say anything," Steve waved him off. "Just enjoy."

Clint nodded, still in shock.

Steve led the way out and soon the two assassins were alone.

"Hungry?" Clint asked as he took in the food with a critical eye.

Natasha smiled and led him towards the table.

"Starving."

* * *

"So are we going to talk about it?" Natasha asked as they finished off their dessert.

Clint raised his eyes to hers and sighed.

"Not if I can avoid it."

"You can't, not any more. You've been avoiding it ever since we left London four days ago."

Clint sat back in his chair, only to lean forward when the bruises on his back protested.

"You weren't planning on walking out of that town house, were you?" Natasha accused quietly.

Clint stared at her for a long, heavy moment.

"No."

Natasha nodded, she'd known that would be his answer. It was still painful to hear.

"Can you honestly say you wouldn't have done the same thing?" he challenged.

"No," she sighed.

"So what do we do about it?" Clint asked, resting his elbows on the table and gazing at her with his intense blue grey eyes. So they were both suicidal when it came to each other. That was old news.

"Request to be partnered again," she suggested confidently. She'd thought a lot about this over the past few days as she mulled over the implications and fallout of Clint's quest for revenge.

Clint's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Do you think Fury would go for it?"

"He would if we threatened to walk away from SHIELD."

Clint stared at her. They'd considered walking away only one other time. After Loki. Clint had decided to stay because Natasha was happy as part of the Avengers. At the time, the Avengers and SHIELD were a package deal for them. Now, he wasn't so sure. Now, he suspected that even if they weren't SHIELD, they'd have a place on this team, albeit it unofficially.

"You would do that? You'd walk away?"

SHIELD had been all they'd known for years now.

"If it meant neither of us where put in this kind of situation again, yes. We're stronger together, Clint, we always have been. If they won't let us partner, I don't want to work for them anymore."

Clint nodded, that was that. He in no way, shape, or form disagreed.

"We'll go to Fury," he decided.

Natasha smiled widely.

"Now, even though you didn't cook, I still think a reward was promised," she nearly purred as she rose from the table and started backing towards the door.

Clint grinned and reached for his crutches.

* * *

"So now that SHIELD has partnered you two again, does that mean you'll go on  _more_  or  _less_  missions?" Steve asked as he hefted a box full of weapons into his arms.

"Hard to say," Clint replied as he slung his quiver over his shoulder and crutched towards the door.

"It does mean that we won't have one of them moping around for days a time when the other is gone," Tony realized with a grin.

Clint shot him a dirty look and a rude gesture. Tony was impressed he pulled it off, considering he barely released his grip on the crutches.

"Any idea when we'll see Thor next?" Bruce asked the group in general as he hefted box full of clothes, a few stray weapons, an old iPod, and a few books.

"He said he would be with Jane for a few weeks before heading back to Asgard. He promised he'd stop by before he left our realm, though," Steve replied.

"How do you fit your entire life into two boxes?" Tony asked as he held open Clint's old bedroom door for Steve and Bruce. Clint crutched out after them.

"Technically, if it weren't for the weapons, it'd only be one," the archer pointed out as he led the way towards Natasha's, now  _his_  and Natasha's, room.

"How do you not have more  _things_?" Tony frowned as he walked next to the assassin. "I'm going to buy you more  _things_ , like a new iPod. Is that a  _first generation_?"

"I don't want a new iPod, Tony," Clint replied with more ferocity than Tony expected. "Phil gave me that one," the archer explained quietly as he reached their destination. Tony nodded, dropping the subject with more grace than he usually did. Phil was a touchy subject with Clint, probably always would be.

Clint nudged open Natasha's door and allowed Steve and Bruce to walk in with his three boxes. He smiled when he saw Natasha clearing a space on her weapon's rack in her closet.

"Besides, Tony," Clint watched his fiery spider toss one of her old guns into a bag to be stored elsewhere, "my life's not about the  _things_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of The Heart Bleeds
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'm going out of town for a few days, I'll start posting the next story when I get back :) Here's a summary of it!
> 
> "Budapest"
> 
> Natasha remembered being worried, being tortured, and facing a small army of enemies with no escape route. Clint remembered pain, confusion about what was real and what wasn't, and the resounding knowledge that he needed to find her. He didn't remember much of anything other than that. So in the end, they would always remember Budapest differently. (Established Blackhawk, Pre-Avengers)

**Author's Note:**

> End of Chapter One
> 
> Thanks for reading! Chapter 2 will be headed your way tomorrow! :)
> 
>  
> 
> Here's your preview:
> 
> "I'm suggesting it might be easier all around if everything was in one room."
> 
> Natasha rolled over, forcing him to roll onto his back to get out of her way.
> 
> "Are you saying we should share a room?"
> 
> "Yeah." He rubbed a hand through his hair almost self consciously.
> 
> "As in 'move in together'."
> 
> "That's the idea."


End file.
